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POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

EDITED    BY 

HENRY  WADSWORTH  LONGFELLOW. 

"  Little  Classic"  STYLE.     Red  Edges.     Pkice,$i.oo 

Vols.  1    4. 

A    VOLUME. 

England  and  Wales. 

5. 

Ireland. 

6-8. 

Scotland,  Denmaik,  Iceland,  Nor- 

way, and  Sweden. 

9,10. 

France  and  Savoy. 

11-13. 

Italy. 

14,  15. 

Spain,     Portugal,     Belgium,     and 

Holland. 

16. 

Switzerland  and  Austria. 

17,  IS. 

Germany. 

19. 

Greece  and  Turkey  in  Europe. 

20. 

Russia. 

21,  22,  23. 

Asia. 

Africa. 

I 

America. 

"These  little  books  are  valuable  mines  of  literary  treasure, 
diminutive  but  tleliijlitful,  atid  with  their  aid  no  idle  half-hour  need 
prove  unwclcoiue  or  unprofitable."  —  Boston  Courier. 


"  If  is  surprising  to  find  how  very  rich  the  selections  are  from  the 
best  poets  of  all  lands.  Each  volume  is  a  choice  repertory  of  the 
finest  poems  in  the  language."— S^'MMe-rw  Quarterly. 


HOUGHTON,  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  Boston. 


01  — fc 

Poems  of  Places 


UDITED   BY 


HENRY    W.    LONGFELLOW 


It  is  the  Soul  tliat  sees ;  the  outward  eyes 
Present  the  object,  but  the  Mind  descries. 

Crabbe. 


FRANCE 


VOL.  I. 


BOSTON: 
HOUGHTON,   OSGOOD.  AND   COMPANY. 

1880. 

13  -4^ 


.  Copyright,  1877- 
By  henry  W.   LONGFELLOW. 


University  Press: 
John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


OOIn^TEjS'TS 


PAGE 

INTRODUCTORY. 

France 0.  Goldsmith  .     .      1 

France S.  T.  Coleridge    .      2 

France W.  Wordsworth  .       6 

France Charles  d'Orleans       7 

QcEEN  Mart's  Farewell Mary  Queen  of  Scots  8 

Mary  Stuart's  Farewell P.  J.  de  Bera-nger      8 

Ths  Marselllaise R.  De  Lisle.     .     .     10 

AGIXCOURT  (AZIN COURT) 

Agincourt W.  Shakespeare  .     13 

.Henry  th3  Fifth  at  Agincourt    ....  "              .15 

The  Ballad  of  Aglncourt M.  Drayton    .     .     17 

Agescourt T.  Heyv:ood    .     .     21 

aigalades,  the 

On  the  Terrace  of  the  Aigalades   ..../.  Mery      ...    21 

AIGUE3-M0RTES 

Aigue-Morte /.  RebovJ,    ...     23 

ANGIERS  (ANGERS). 

Angiers JF.  Shakespeare  .    25 

Angieels "               .26 

ARDENNES 

Ardennes W.  Shakespeare  .    27 

Song "               .29 

Ardennes "        '       .30 

The  Forest  of  Ardennes F.  Petrarca-    .     .    31 

ARGELES. 

Above,  upon  the  mountains C.  Despourrins    .    32 

ARGENTEUIL 

Eloisa  to  Abelard A.  Pope      ...    34 


]V  CONTENTS. 

ARLES. 

Arles F.  Mistral ...     35 

Arles "        ...     37 

ARRAS. 

The  Duke's  Exequy ^  E.  C.  Stedman     .    41 

AUVERGNE. 

MoNTAGNARDE Auonymous    .     .    43 

AVIGNON. 

Avignon Maria  Lowell .     .     44 

The  Massacre  of  Avignon B.  R.  Parkes  .    .    46 

The  Bells  of  Avignon IV.  Thornbury    .    48 

The  WiHE  of  Avignon F.  Redi  ....     51 

BAREGES. 

On  Returning  from  Bar^iges    .    .     .    .  J.  J.L.  de  Pampignan    51 

BESANCON. 

Toussaint  L"Ouverture W.  Wordsworth  .     53 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture J.  G.  Whittier    .    53 

BISCAY,  THE  BAY. 

The  Bat  of  Biscay  0! A.  Cherry  ...    55 

BLAYE 

Geoffry  Rudel  and  Melisanda  of  Tripoli.       H.  Heine    ...    56 

BLOIS 

To  M.  Louis  Blanc,  in  Blois        .    .    .     .     V.  Hugo     ...     59 

BORDEAUX. 

Burdigala       .     .         AusoJiius   ...     61 

To  THE  Memory  op  Edward  the  Black 
Prince Sir  Walter  Scott  .    62 

BOULOGNE. 

Napoleon  and  the  British  Sailor  .  .  .  T.  Campbell  .  .  64 
BONCOURT. 

Cha."e.\u  Boncourt L.  A.voriChamisso  Q7 

BOURG-LA-RETNE. 

Bojrg-la-Reine        B.  R.  Parkes  .    .    68 

Charming  Gabrielle Henri  IV.  .     ,    .     70 

BRIENNE. 

The  School-Boy  King W.  Th<yrnbury    .     71 

BRITTANY. 

Adieu  to  Brittany S.  Ferguson    .    .     74 

BROU 

The  Church  of  Broo M.  Arnold.    .    .     78 


CONTENTS. 


CAEN. 

Burial  of  Willlam  the  Conqueror 

CALAIS. 


F.  Remans 


86 


CALAIS 

L.  H.  Sigourney  . 

88 

FlSH-WOME\ 

W.  Wordsivorth 

92 

Calms  Sands  

M.Arnold.     .     . 

92 

CAMARGUE. 

Camargue    

F.  Mistral.      . 

94 

Petite  Camargue 

96 

CANNES. 

Rachel 

M.  Arnold      . 

100 

Near  Cannes 

a.  K.  Aitken  . 

101 

C.UICASSONNE. 

Carcassonne 

G.  Nadatid     . 

102 

CAREXNAC. 

The  Little  Abbey  of  Carexnac    .... 

F.  Fenelon      . 

104 

CARNAC. 

Stanzas  composed  at  Carnac 

M.  Arnold      . 

107 

CASTEL-CUILLE. 

Castel-Ccille 

J.  Jasmin  .     . 

109 

CAUDEBEC. 

Written  at  Caudebec  in  Normandy  .     .     . 

A.  H.  Hallam 

110 

CADTERKTZ, 

In  TH.i  Valley  of  Cauteretz 

A.  Tennyson  . 

111 

CETTE. 

A  Southern  Night  

M.  Arnold.     . 

112 

CHARTRES. 

Chartres    

J.  R.  Lowell 

114 

CHATEAU    D'IF. 

• 

The  Ch-ateau  d'If 

J.  Fardoe  .     . 

.  120 

CHARTREUSE,  LA   GRANDE. 

The  Gran-de  Chartreuse 

W.  Wordsworth 

.  124 

The  Grande  Chartreuse 

M.  Arnold.     . 

.  125 

In  TH2  Valley  of  the  Grande  Chartreuse 

F.  T.  Palgrave 

.  133 

CHENOXCEAUX. 

The  Banks  of  the  Cher  

A.  M.  Lemierre 

.  134 

CHINON. 

Chinon 

R.  Southey . 

138 

CLERMONT. 

The  Council  of  Clermont 

Sir  A.  de  Vere 

.  139 

VI  CONTENTS. 

CLISSON 

Clisson K.  H.  Digby   .     .  140 

The  Castle  of  Clisson T.  G.  Appleton    .  142 

CRESSY  (CRECY). 

The  Ballad  of  Cr^ct R.  H.  Stoddard  .  143 

CORSICA. 

Corsica A.  L.  Barhauld  .  146 

COUTRAS. 

The  Death  of  Joyeuse Anonymous    .     .  149 

DIEPPE. 

At  Dieppe W.  W.  Story  .     .  150 

DINAN. 

The  Baron  de  Jauioz Anonymous   .     .  151 

DOMRKMY. 

Joan  of  Arc W.  Shakespeare  .  156 

Joan  of  Arc's  Farewell  to  her  Home      .     F.  Schiller  .    .     .  157 

The  Maid  of  Orleans "        ...  159 

DoMREMY R.  Southey .     .     .  159 

DREDX 

King  Henry  the  Fifth  and  the  Hermit  of 
Dreux R.  Southey.     .     .  161 

DUNKIRK  (DUNKERQUE). 

Peace  and  Dunkirk /.  Swift      .     .    .  164 

DURANCE,  THE   RIVER. 

Sir  Reginald M.  R.  Mitford     .  165 

The  Durance. L.  E.Landon.     .  166 

ELLE,  THE  RIVER 

Waters  of  Elle Anonymous    .     .  168 

•ELLIANT. 

The  Plague  of  Elliant Ballads  of  Brittany  169 

ERMENONVILLE. 

For  the  Cenotaph  at  Ermenonvtlle     .     .     R.  Soutliey .    .     .  171 

FINISTERE 

FinistI;re J.  Kenward    .     .  172 

FONT.\INEBLEAU. 

Fontainebleau B.  R.  ParJces  .     .  173 

I\  the  Forest  of  Fontainebleau  .     .     .     .     C.  P.  Crunch  .     .  178 
The  Bells  of  Fontainebleau W.  Thombicry    .  179 

FONTENAY. 

Fontenay G.A.de  Chaulieu  181 


CONTENTS.  Vil 

FONTEVRAULT. 

C(EUR  DE  Lion  at  the  Bier  of  his  Father    F.  Hemans.    .     .  184 

GA.STINE. 

To  the  Forest  of  Gastine P.  de  Rousard     .  187 

GAUBE,  THE  LAKE 

The  Tragedy  of  the  L-iC  de  Gacbe,  in  the 
PYR2XEES Lord  Houghton   .  189 

GEVAUDUN. 

Clotilde Anonymous    .     .  193 

HARFLEUR. 

Henry  the  Fifth  before  Harflecr  .     .     .     W.  SJmkespeare  .  194 

HAUTEFORT. 

Bertrand  de  Born B.  de  Born     .     .  196 

HAUTVILLERS. 

Elegy  written   at  the   Convent  of  Haut 
Villers,  in  Champagne,  1754     ....     M.  Akenside  .     .  198 
IVRY-LA-BATAILLE 

The  Battle  of  Ivry T.  B.  Macaulay  .  199 

JURANCON. 

The  Wine  of  Jcran^on C.  Coran    .     .     .  203 

KAER-IS. 

The  Drowning  of  Kaer-is Ballads  of  Brittany    204 

KERLOAN. 

Bran "  "         207 

KEROULAZ. 

The  Heiress  of  Ki:EOULAZ Anonymous    .     .  213 

LA  CHAUDEAU. 

At  La  Chaudeau X  Marmier    .     .  220 

LA  CRAU 

La  Crau F.  Mistral  .  221 

LA   GARAYE. 

Chateau  La  Garaye Hon.  Mrs.  Norton  224 

LA  QUENILLE  (LA   QUEILLE) 

A  Modern  Pilgrimage A.  H.  Clough  .     .231 

LIRE. 

Du  Bellay  to  his  Native  Village  .  .  .  /.  du  Bellay  .  .  232 
LOIRE,  THE   RIVER 

The  Loire W.  Wordsworth  .  233 

To  the  Loire Anonymous    .     ■  235 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

LUBERON,  THE   MOUNTAINS. 

Gathering  the  Cocoons F.  Mistrai .     .     .  239 

MARLY-LE-ROI. 

Marly-le-Roi B.  B.  Parkes  .     .  241 

MARMOUTIER. 

The  Monk    of  Marmoutier "  .     .  243 

MARSEILLES. 

Marseilles F.  Mistral .     .     .  247 

Captain  Rance.    1525 Old  French  Song  .  248 

MARTIGUE. 

The  Suitors F.  Mistral .     .    .249 

MESNIL-SOUS-JUMIE  GES. 

Agnes  Sorel J.  A.  de  Ba'if  .     .  250 

MONCONTOUR. 

A  Song  of  the  Huguenots T.  B.  Macaulay  .  253 

MONTAUBAN 

Verses  written  at  Montauban,  1750    .     .     T.  Warton      .     .  254 

MONTMARTRE. 

Heine's  Grave M.  Arnold.     .     .  255 

MONTPELLIER. 

Narcissa E.  Young  .     .     .258 

MONT   VALERIEN. 

The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits J.  G.  Wldttier     .  260 

MORBIHAN. 

St.  GaDAS  de  Rhdis H.  W.  Long/ellov:  263 


IE"TEODUCTORY 


FRANCE. 


TO  kinder  skies,  where  gentler  manners  reign, 
I  turn ;  and  France  displays  her  bright  domain : 
Gay,  sprightly  land  of  mirth  and  social  ease, 
Pleased  with  thyself,  whom  all  the  world  can  please. 
How  often  have  I  led  tliy  sportive  choir, 
With  tuneless  pipe,  beside  the  murmuring  Loire! 
Where  shading  elms  along  the  margin  grew, 
And  freshened  from  the  wave  the  zephyr  flew ; 
And  haply,  though  my  harsh  touch,  faltering  still, 
But  mocked  all  tune,  and  marred  the  dancer's  skill. 
Yet  would  the  village  praise  my  wondrous  power. 
And  dance,  forgetful  of  the  noontide  hour. 
Alike  all  ages.     Dames  of  ancient  days 
Have  led  their  children  through  the  mirthful  maze; 
And  the  gay  grandsire,  skilled  in  gestic  lore. 
Has  frisked  beneath  the  burden  of  threescore. 
So  blest  a  life  these  thoughtless  realms  display. 
Thus  idly  busy  rolls  their  world  away : 
Theirs  are  those  arts  that  mind  to  mind  endear. 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

For  honor  forms  tlie  social  temper  here, — 
Houor,  that  praise  which  real  merit  gains, 
Or  even  imaginary  worth  obtains. 
Here  passes  current ;  paid  from  hand  to  hand. 
It  shifts,  in  splendid  traffic,  round  the  land; 
From  courts  to  camps,  to  cottages  it  strays. 
And  all  are  taught  an  avarice  of  praise ; 
They  please,  are  pleased,  tiiey  give  to  get  esteem, 
Till,  seeming  blest,  they  grow  to  what  they  seem. 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


FRANCE. 


YE  clouds !  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause, 
Whose  pathless  inarch  no  mortal  may  control ! 
Ye  ocean-waves  !  tliat,  wheresoe'er  ye  roll, 

Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws ! 
Ye  woods !  that  listen  to  the  night-birds  singing, 
Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope  reclined, 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches  swinging 

Have  made  a  solemn  music  of  the  wind  ! 
Where,  like  a  man  beloved  of  God, 
Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman  trod, 

How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  lioly, 
My  moonlight  way  o'er  flowering  weeds  I  wound, 

Inspired,  beyond  the  guess  of  folly, 
By  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquerable  sound  ! 
O  ye  loud  waves  !  and  0  ye  forests  high ! 
And  O  ve  clouds  that  far  above  me  soared! 


INTRODUCTORY. 

Thou  rising  sun  !  tliou  blue  rejoicing  sky  ! 
Yea,  everything  that  is  and  will  be  free ! 
Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye  be. 
With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still  adored 
The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty. 


When  France  in  wrath  her  giant-limbs  upreared, 

And  with  that  oath  which  smote  air,  earth,  and  sea, 

Stamped  her  strong  foot  and  said  she  would  be  free. 
Bear  witness  for  me  how  T  hoped  and  feared ! 
With  what  a  joy  my  lofty  gratulation 

Unawed  I  sang,  amid  a  slavish  band  : 
And  when  to  whelm  tlie  disenchanted  nation, 

Like  fiends  embattled  by  a  wizard's  wand, 
The  monarchs  marched  in  evil  day. 
And  Britain  joined  the  dire  array, 

Though  dear  her  shores  and  circling  ocean. 
Though  many  friendships,  many  youthful  loves. 

Had  swollen  the  patriot  emotion 
And  flung  a  magic  light  o'er  all  her  hills  and  groves, 
Yet  still  my  voice,  unaltered,  sang  defeat 

To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-quelling  lance, 
And  shame  too  long  delayed  and  vain  retreat.! 
For  ne'er,  0  Liberty  !  with  partial  aim 
I  dimmed  thy  light  or  damped  thy  holy  flame ; 

But  blessed  the  paeans  of  delivered  France, 
And  hung  my  head  and  wept  at  Britain's  name. 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


III. 


"And  what,"  I  said,  "  thougli  Blasphemy's  loud  scream 

With  that  sweet  music  of  deUverance  strove ! 

Thougli  all  the  fierce  and  drunken  passions  wove 
A  dance  more  wild  than  e'er  was  maniac's  dream  ! 

Ye  storms,  that  round  the  dawning  east  assembled, 
The  sun  was  rising,  though  ye  hid  his  light!" 

And  when,  to  soothe  my  soul,  that  hoped  and  trem- 
bled. 
The  dissonance  ceased,  and  all  seemed  calm  and  bright ; 

When  France  her  froi\t  deep-scarred  and  gory 

Concealed  with  clustering  wreaths  of  glory; 
When,  insupportably  advancing. 

Her  arm  made  mockery  of  the  warrior's  tramp  ; 
While  timid  looks  of  fury  glancing. 

Domestic  treason,  crushed  beneath  her  fatal  stamp. 
Writhed  like  a  wounded  dragon  in  his  gore ; 

Then  I  reproached  my  fears  that  would  not  flee ; 
"  And  soon,"  I  said,  "  shall  Wisdom  teach  her  lore 
In  the  low  huts  of  them  that  toil  and  groan ! 
And,  conquering  by  her  happiness  alone. 

Shall  France  compel  the  nations  to  be  free. 
Till  Love  and  Joy  look  round,  and  call  the  earth  their 


IV. 

Forgive  me.  Freedom  !     0,  forgive  those  dreams ! 
I  hear  thy  voice,  I  hear  thy  loud  lament, 
From  bleak  Helvetia's  icy  cavern  sent, — 


INTUODUCTOHY.  5 

I  hear  tliy  groans  upon  lier  blood-stained  streams  ! 
Heroes,  that  for  your  peaceful  country  perished, 

And  ye  that,  fleeing,  spot  your  mountain-snows 

With  bleeding  wounds;  forgive  me  that  I  cherished 

One  thought  that  ever  blessed  your  cruel  foes! 
To  scatter  rage,  and  traitorous  guilt. 
Where  Peace  her  jealous  home  had  built; 
A  patriot-race  to  disinherit 

Of  all  that  made  their  stormy  wilds  so  dear ; 
And  with  inexpiable  spirit 

To  taint  the  bloodless  freedom  of  the  mountaineer, — 

O  France,  that  mockest  Heaven,  adulterous,  blind, 
And  patriot  only  in  pernicious  toils, 

Are  these  thy  boasts,  champion  of  human  kind  ? 
To  mix  with  kings  in  the  low  lust  of  sway, 
Yell  in  the  hunt,  and  share  the  murderous  prey; 
To  insult  the  shrine  of  Liberty  with  spoils 
From  freemen  torn  ;  to  tempt  and  to  betray  ? 


The  Sensual  and  the  Dark  rebel  in  vain. 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion  !     In  mad  game 
They  burst  their  manacles  and  wear  the  name 

Of  Freedom,  graven  on  a  heavier  chain ! 
O  Liberty !  with  profitless  endeavor 

Have  I  pursued  thee,  many  a  weary  hour; 

But  thou  nor  swell'st  the  victor's  strain,  nor  ever 

Didst  breathe  thy  soul  in  forms  of  human  power. 
Alike  from  all,  howe'er  they  praise  thee 
(Nor  prayer  nor  boastful  name  delays  thee), 


b  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Alike  from  priestcraft's  harpj  minions, 
And  factious  Blaspliemy's  obscener  slaves, 
Thou  speedest  on  thy  subtle  pinions, 
The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  playmate  of  the  waves! 
And  there  I  felt  thee  !  —  on  that  sea-cliff's  verge 

Whose  pines,  scarce  travelled  by  the  breeze  above. 
Had  made  one  murmur  with  the  distant  surge  ! 
Yes,  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  my  temples  bare, 
And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea,  and  air. 
Possessing  all  things  with  intensest  love, 
O  Liberty  !  my  spirit  felt  thee  there. 

Samuel  Taj/lor  Coleridge. 

FRANCE. 

LIGHTLY  equipped,  and  but  a  few  brief  looks 
Cast  on  the  white  cliffs  of  our  native  shore 
From  the  receding  vessel's  deck,  we  chanced 
To  land  at  Calais  on  the  very  eve 
Of  that  great  federal  day  ;  and  there  we  saw, 
Li  a  mean  city,  and  among  a  few, 
How  bright  a  face  is  worn  when  joy  of  one 
Is  joy  for  tens  of  millions.     Southward  thence 
We  held  our  way,  direct  tlirough  hamlets,  towns 
Gaudy  with  relics  of  that  festival, 
Flowers  left  to  wither  on  triumphal  arcs, 
And  window-garlands.     On  the  ))ublic  roads, 
And  once  three  days  successively  through  paths 
By  which  our  toilsome  journey  was  abridged. 
Among  sequestered  villages  we  walked. 
And  found  benevolence  aud  blessedness 


INTRODUCTORY.  7 

Spread  like  a  fragrance  everywhere,  wlieii  spring 

Hath  left  no  corner  of  the  land  untouclied ; 

Where  elms  for  many  and  many  a  league  in  files, 

With  their  thin  umbrage,  on  the  stately  roads 

Of  that  great  kingdom,  rustled  o'er  our  heads, 

Forever  near  us  as  we  paced  along: 

How  sweet  at  such  a  time,  with  such  delight 

On  every  side,  in  prime  of  youthful  strength. 

To  feed  a  poet's  tender  melancholy 

And  fond  conceit  of  sadness,  with  the  sound 

Of  undulations  varying  as  might  please 

The  wind  that  swayed  them  ;  once,  and  more  than  once. 

Unhoused  beneath  the  evening  star,  we  saw 

Dances  of  liberty,  and,  in  late  hours 

Of  darkness,  dances  in  the  open  air 

Deftly  prolonged,  though  gray-haired  lookers-on 

Might  waste  their  breath  in  chiding. 

William  JFordswortk. 


FRANCE. 

I  STOOD  upon  the  wild  sea-shore. 
And  marked  the  wide  expanse  ; 
My  straining  eyes  were  turned  once  more 

To  long  loved,  distant  France  : 
I  saw  the  sea-bird  hurry  by 

Along  the  waters  blue; 
I  saw  her  wheel  amid  the  sky. 
And  mock  my  tearful,  eager  eye. 
That  would  her  flight  pursue. 


POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Onward  she  darts,  secure  and  free. 
And  wings  her  rapid  course  to  thee  ! 
O  that  her  wing  were  mine,  to  soar. 
And  reach  thy  lovely  land  once  more  ! 
O  Heaven !  it  were  enough  to  die 

In  my  own,  my  native  home,  — 
One  hour  of  blessed  liberty 

Were  worth  whole  years  to  come ! 

Charles  d' Orleans.     Tr.  Louisa  Stuart  Costella. 

QUEEN  MARY'S  FAREWELL. 

FAREWELL,  beloved  France,  to  thee, 
Best  native  land  ! 
The  cherished  strand 
That  nursed  my  tender  infancy ! 

Farewell,  my  cliildhood's  happy  day ! 
Tlie  bark  that  bears  me  thus  away 

Bears  but  the  poorer  moiety  hence ; 
The  nobler  half  remains  M-ith  thee,  — 

I  leave  it  to  tliy  confidence, 
But  to  remind  thee  still  of  me! 

J/a/y  Queen  of  Scots.     Tr.  Anonymous. 

MARY  STUART'S  FAREWELL. 

ADIEU,  beloved  France,  adieu, 
Thou  ever  wilt  be  dear  to  me. 
Land  which  my  happy  childhood  knew, 
I  feel  I  die,  in  quitting  thee. 


INTRODUCTORY. 

Tliou  wert  the  country  of  my  choice, 

1  leave  tlice,  loving  thee  alone ; 
Ah !  hear  the  exile's  parting  voice,  ^ 

And  think  of  her  when  she  is  gone. 
The  breeze  about  the  vessel  plays, 

We  leave  the  coast,  —  I  weep  in  vain, 
For  God  the  billows  will  not  raise, 

To  cast  me  on  thy  shore  again. 
Adieu,  beloved  France,  etc. 

When  on  my  brow  the  lilies  bright 

Before  admiring  throngs  I  wore, 
'T  was  not  my  state  that  charmed  their  sight. 

They  loved  my  youthful  beauty  more. 
Although  the  Scot  with  sombre  mien 

Gives  me  a  crown,  I  still  repine  ; 
I  only  wished  to  be  a  queen. 

Ye  sons  of  France,  to  call  you  mine. 
Adieu,  beloved  France,  etc. 

Love,  glory,  genius  crowded  round, 

My  youthful  spirit  to  elate; 
On  Caledonia's  rugged  ground, 

Ah !  changed  indeed  will  be  my  fate. 
E'en  now  terrific  omens  seem 

To  threaten  ill,  —  my  heart  is  scared; 
I  see,  as  in  a  hideous  dream, 

A  scaffold  for  my  death  prepared. 
Adieu,  beloved  France,  etc. 

France,  from  amid  the  countless  fears 
The  Stuart's  hapless  child  may  feel. 


10  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

E'en  as  slie  now  looks  through  her  tears. 

So  will  her  glances  seek  thee  still. 
Alas  !  the  ship  too  swiftly  sails, 

O'er  me  are  spreading  other  skies, 
And  night  with  humid  mantle  veils 
Tliy  lading  coast  from  these  sad  eyes. 
Adieu,  beloved  France,  etc. 
Pierre  Jean  de  Beranyer.     Tr.  John  Oxenford. 


THE  MARSEILLAISE. 

COME,  cliildren  of  your  country,  come. 
New  glory  dawns  upon  the  world. 
Our  tyrants,  rushing  to  their  doom, 

Tlieir  bloody  standard  liave  unfurled; 
Already  on  our  plains  w-e  hear 
The  murmurs  of  a  savage  horde; 
They  threaten  with  the  murderous  sword 
Your  comrades  and  your  children  dear. 
Tlien   up,  and  form  your  ranks,  the   hireling  foe  with- 
stand ; 
March  on,  —  his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

Those  banded  serfs,  —  what  would  they  have. 

By  tyrant  kings  together  brought  ? 
Whom  arc  tliose  fetters  to  enslave 

Which  h)ng  ago  their  hands  have  wrought? 
You,  Frenchmen,  you  they  would  enchain ; 

Doth  not  the  thought  your  bosoms  fire? 

The  ancient  bondage  they  desire 
To  force  upon  your  necks  again. 


INTRODUCTORY.  11 

Then  up,  and  form   your  ranks,  the  hirelmg  foe  with- 
stand ; 
March  on,  —  his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

Those  marshalled  foreigners,  —  shall  they 

Make  laws  to  reach  the  Frenchman's  hearth? 
Shall  hireling  troops  who  fight  for  pay 

Strike  down  our  warriors  to  the  earth  ? 
God !  shall  we  bow  beneath  the  weight 
Of  hands  that  slavish  fetters  wear? 
Shall  ruthless  despots  once  more  dare 
To  be  the  masters  of  our  fate  ? 
Then  up,  and  form    your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  with- 
stand ; 
March  on,  —  his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

Then  tremble,  tyrants, — -traitors  all, — 

Ye,  whom  both  friends  and  foes  despise; 
On  you  shall  retribution  fall, 

Your  crimes  shall  gain  a  worthy  prize. 
Each  man  opposes  might  to  might ; 
And  when  our  youthful  heroes  die 
Our  France  can  well  their  place  supply; 
We  're  soldiers  all  with  you  to  fight. 
Then  up,  and  form  your   ranks,  the  hireling  foe  with- 
stand ; 
March  on,  —  his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

Yet,  generous  warriors,  still  forbear 

To  deal  on  all  your  vengeful  blows ; 
The  train  of  hapless  victims  spare. 

Against  their  will  they  are  our  foes. 


12  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  0,  those  despots  stained  with  blood. 
Those  traitors  leagued  with  base  Bouille, 
Who  make  their  native  land  their  prey ;  — 
Death  to  the  savage  tiger-brood ! 
Then  up,  and  form   your  ranks,  the  hireling  foe  with- 
stand ; 
March  on,  —  his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

And  when  our  glorious  sires  are  dead. 

Their  virtues  we  shall  surely  find 
When  on  the  selfsame  path  we  tread. 

And  track  the  fame  they  leave  behind. 
Less  to  survive  them  we  desire 
Than  to  partake  their  noble  grave; 
The  proud  ambition  we  shall  have 
To  liye  for  vengeance  or  expire. 
Then  up,  and  form   your  i-anks,  the  hireling  foe  with- 
stand ; 
March  on,  —  his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 

Come,  love  of  country,  guide  us  now. 

Endow  our  vengeful  arms  with  might, 
And,  dearest  liberty,  do  thou 

Aid  thy  defenders  in  the  fight. 
Unto  our  flags  let  victory, 

Called  by  thy  stirring  accents,  haste; 
And  may  thy  dying  foes  at  last 
Thy  triumph  and  our  glory  see. 
Then  up,  and  form    your   ranks,  the  hireling  foe  with- 
stand ; 
March  on, — his  craven  blood  must  fertilize  the  land. 
Jiouget  Be  Lisle.     Tr.  John  Ou-enford. 


FRANCE 


Agincourt  [Azincourt). 

AGIXCOURT. 

NOW  entertain  conjecture  of  a  time, 
When  creeping  murmur,  and  tlie  poring  dark, 
Fills  the  wide  vessel  of  the  universe. 
From  camp  to  camp,  through  the  foul  womb  of  Night, 
The  hum  of  either  army  stilly  sounds, 
That  the  fix'd  sentinels  almost  receive 
The  secret  whispers  of  each  other's  watch ; 
Fire  answers  fire,  and  through  their  paly  flames 
Each  battle  sees  the  other's  umber'd  face; 
Steed  threatens  steed,  in  high  and  boastful  neighs 
Piercing  the  Night's  dull  ear ;  and  from  the  tents. 
The  armourers,  accomplishing  the  knights. 
With  busy  hammers  closing  rivets  up. 
Give  dreadful  note  of  preparation : 
The  country  cocks  do  crow,  the  clocks  do  toll. 
And  the  third  hour  of  drowsy  morning  name. 
Proud  of  their  numbers,  and  secure  in  soul, 


14  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  confident  and  over-lusty  French 

Do  the  low-rated  English  play  at  dice ; 

And  chide  the  cripple  tardy-gaited  Night, 

Who,  like  a  foul  and  ugly  witch,  doth  limp 

So  tediously  away.     The  poor  condemned  English, 

Like  sacrifices,  by  their  watchful  fires 

Sit  patiently,  and  inly  ruminate 

The  morning's  danger;  and  their  gestures  sad, 

Investing  lank-lean  cheeks  and  war-vi'orn  coats, 

Presenteth  them  unto  the  gazing  moon 

So  many  horrid  ghosts.     0,  now,  who  will  behold 

The  royal  captain  of  this  ruin'd  band. 

Walking  from  watch  to  watch,  from  tent  to  tent, 

Let  him  cry.  Praise  and  glory  on  his  head ! 

Eor  forth  he  goes,  and  visits  all  his  host; 

Bids  them  good  morrow,  with  a  modest  smile ; 

And  calls  them  brothers,  friends,  and  countrymen. 

Upon  his  royal  face  there  is  no  note 

How  dread  an  army  hath  enrounded  him, 

Nor  doth  he  dedicate  one  jot  of  color 

Unto  the  weary  and  all-watched  night; 

But  freshly  looks,  and  over-bears  attaint 

With  cheerful  semblance  and  sweet  majesty; 

That  every  wretch,  j)ining  and  pale  before. 

Beholding  him,  plucks  comfort  from  his  looks. 

A  largess  universal,  like  the  sun, 

His  liberal  eye  doth  give  to  every  one, 

Thawing  cold  fear. 

irUUam  Shakespeare. 


AGINCOURT    (aZINCOURT).  15 


HENRY  THE  FIFTH  AT  AGINCOURT. 

WESTMORELAND.     0  that  we  now  had  here 
But  oue  ten  thousand  of  those  men  in  England 
That  do  no  work  to-day  ! 

{Enter  King  Hexry.) 
King  Henry.     What 's  lie  that  wishes  so  ? 
My  cousin  Westmoreland? — No,  my  fair  cousin: 
If  we  are  mark'd  to  die,  we  are  enow 
To  do  our  country  loss ;  and  if  to  live. 
The  fewer  men  the  greater  share  of  honor. 
God's  will !  I  pray  thee,  wish  not  one  man  more. 

By  Jove,  I  am  not  covetous  for  gold; 

Nor  care  I  who  doth  feed  upon  my  cost; 

It  yearns  me  not  if  men  my  garments  wear; 

Such  outward  things  dwell  not  in  my  desires: 

But  if  it  be  a  sin  to  covet  honor, 

I  am  the  most  offending  soul  alive. 

No,  'faith,  my  coz,  wish  not  a  man  from  England  : 

God's  peace  !     I  would  not  lose  so  great  an  honor. 

As  one  man  more,  methinks,  would  share  from  me, 

Eor  the  best  hope  I  have.     0,  do  not  wish  one  more 

Rather  proclaim  it,  Westmoreland,  through  my  host. 

That  he  which  hath  no  stomach  to  this  fight 

Let  him  depart;  his  passport  shall  be  made. 

And  crowns  for  convoy  put  into  his  purse : 

We  would  not  die  in  that  man's  company 

That  fears  his  fellowship  to  die  with  us. 


16  POEMS    OP    PLACES. 

This  day  is  call'd  the  feast  of  Crispian: 

He  that  outlives  this  day,  and  comes  safe  liome. 

Will  stand  a  tip-toe  when  this  day  is  nam'd. 

And  rouse  him  at  the  name  of  Crispian. 

He  that  shall  live  this  day,  and  see  old  age. 

Will  yearly  on  the  vigil  feast  his  friends, 

And  say,  To-morrow  is  Saint  Crispian : 

Then  will  he  strip  his  sleeves,  and  show  his  scars. 

And  say,  these  wounds  I  had  on  Crispian's  day. 

Old  men  forget;  yet  all  shall  be  forgot. 

But  he  '11  remember,  with  advantages. 

What  feats  he  did  that  day :   then  sliall  our  names, 

Familiar  in  their  mouths  as  household  words,  — 

Harry  the  king,  Bedford,  and  Exeter, 

Warwick  and  Talbot,  Salisbury  and  Gloster,  — • 

Be  in  their  flowing  cups  freshly  remeniber'd : 

This  story  shall  the  good  man  teach  his  son; 

And  Crispin  Cris])ian  shall  ne'er  go  by. 

From  this  day  to  the  ending  of  the  world, 

But  we  in  it  shall  be  remembered : 

We  few,  we  happy  few,  we  band  of  brothers ; 

For  he,  to-day,  that  sheds  his  blood  with  me. 

Shall  be  my  brother ;  be  he  ne'er  so  vile. 

This  day  shall  gentle  his  condition : 

And  gentlemen  in  England,  now  abed, 

Shall  think  themselves  accurs'd  they  were  not  here, 

And  hold  their  manhood  cheap,  while  any  speaks 

That  fought  with  us  upon  Saint  Crispin's  day. 

William  Shakespeare. 


AGINCOURT    (AZINCOURT).  17 


THE  BALLAD  OF  AGINCOURT. 

FAIR  stood  the  wind  for  France, 
Wbeii  we  our  sails  advance, 
Nor  now  to  prove  our  chance 

Longer  will  tarry; 
But  putting  to  the  main, 
At  Kaux,  the  mouth  of  Seiue, 
With  all  his  martial  train, 
Landed  King  Harry. 

And  taking  many  a  fort, 
Furnished  in  warlike  sort. 
Marched  toward  Agincourt 

In  happy  hour ; 
Skirmishing  day  by  day 
With  those  that  stopped  his  way, 
Where  the  French  general  lay 

With  all  his  power. 

Which  in  his  height  of  pride, 
King  Henry  to  deride, 
His  ransom  to  provide 

To  the  king  sending; 
Which  he  neglects  the  while. 
As  from  a  nation  vile. 
Yet,  with  an  angry  smile. 

Their  fall  portending. 

And  turning  to  his  men, 
Quoth  our  brave  Henry  then: 


18  POEMS   OF    PLACES. 

"Though  they  to  one  be  ten. 

Be  not  amazed ; 
Yet  liave  we  well  begun, 
Battles  so  bravely  won 
Have  ever  to  the  sun 

By  fame  been  raised. 

"And  for  myself,"  quoth  he, 
"This  my  full  rest  shall  be; 
England  ne'er  mourn  for  me. 

Nor  more  esteem  me. 
Victor  I  will  remain. 
Or  on  this  earth  lie  slain ; 
Never  shall  she  sustain 

Loss  to  redeem  me. 

"Poitiers  and  Cressy  tell. 
When  most  their  pride  did  swell. 
Under  our  swords  they  fell. 

No  less  our  skill  is 
Than  when  our  grandsire  great. 
Claiming  tlie  regal  seat. 
By  many  a  warlike  feat 

Lopped  the  French  lilies." 

The  Duke  of  York  so  dread 
The  eager  vaward  led ; 
With  the  main  Henry  sped 
Amongst  liis  henchmen. 
Excester  had  the  rear, 
A  braver  nuin  uot  there : 


AGINCOURT    (aZINCOURT).  19 

O  Lord !  how  hot  they  were 
On  the  false  Frenchmen  ! 

They  now  to  fight  are  gone  ; 
Armour  on  armour  shone; 
Drum  now  to  drum  did  groan, 

To  hear  was  wonder ; 
That  with  the  cries  they  make 
The  very  earth  did  shake; 
Trumpet  to  trumpet  spake. 

Thunder  to  thunder. 

Well  it  thine  age  became, 
O  noble  Erpingham  ! 
Which  did  the  signal  aim 

To  our  hid  forces ; 
When,  from  a  meadow  by. 
Like  a  storm  suddenly, 
The  English  archery 

Struck  the  French  horses. 

With  Spanish  yew  so  strong. 
Arrows  a  cloth-yard  long, 
That  like  to  serpents  stung. 

Piercing  the  weather; 
None  from  his  fellow  starts, 
But  playing  manly  parts. 
And  like  true  English  hearts, 

Stuck  close  together. 

When  down  their  bows  they  threw. 
And  forth  tiieir  bilbows  drew, 


20  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  on  the  French  they  flew, 
Not  one  was  tardy  : 

Arms  were  from  shoulders  sent ; 

Scalps  to  the  teeth  were  rent ; 

Down  the  French  peasants  went; 
Our  men  were  hardy. 

This  while  our  noble  king, 
His  broadsword  brandishing, 
Down  the  French  host  did  ding, 

As  to  o'erwhelm  it ; 
And  many  a  deep  wound  rent 
His  arms  with  blood  besprent. 
And  many  a  cruel  dent. 

Bruised  his  helmet. 

Glo'ster,  that  duke  so  good, 
Next  of  the  royal  blood, 
For  famous  England  stood, 

With  his  brave  brother; 
Clarence,  in  sfeel  so  bright, 
Though  but  a  maiden  knight. 
Yet  in  that  furious  fight 

Scarce  such  another. 

Warwick  in  blood  did  wade, 
Oxford  the  foe  invade. 
And  cruel  slaughter  made. 
Still  as  they  ran  up; 
Suffolk  his  axe  did  ply  ; 
Beaumont  and  Willoughby 


AIGALADES,    THE.  21 

Bare  tlieni  right  doughtily, 
Ferrers  and  Faiihope. 

Upon  Saint  Crisi)in's  day 
Fought  was  this  noble  fray. 
Which  fame  did  not  delay 
To  England  to  carry; 
O,  when  shall  Englishmen 
With  such  acts  fill  a  pen, 
Or  England  breed  again 


Such  a  King  Harry 


AGINCOURT. 


Michael  Drayton. 


AGINCOURT,  Agiiicourt !  know  ye  not  Agincourt  ? 
Where  the  English  slew  and  hurt 

All  the  French  foemen. 
With  our  guns  and  bills  brown, 
0,  the  French  were  beat  down, 

Morris-pikes  and  bowmen! 

Thomas  Heywood. 


Aigalades,    The, 

ON  THE  TERRACE  OF  THE  AIGALADES. 

FROM  this  high  portal,  where  upsprings 
The  rose  to  touch  our  hands  in  play, 
We  at  a  glance  behold  three  things,  — 
The  sea,  the  town  and  the  highway. 


22  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  the  sea  says :  My  shipwrecks  fear, 
I  drown  my  best  friends  in  the  deep ; 
And  those  who  braved  my  tempests,  here 
Among  my  sea-weeds  lie  asleep ! 

Tlie  town  says :  I  am  filled  and  fraught 
With  tumult  and  with  smoke  and  care; 
My  days  with  toil  are  overwrought, 
And  in  my  nights  I  gasp  for  air. 

The  highway  says :  My  wheel-tracks  guide 
\    To  the  pale  climates  of  the  North ; 
Where  my  last  milestone  stands,  abide 
The  people  to  their  death  gone  forth. 

Here,  in  the  shade,  this  life  of  ours, 
Full  of  delicious  air,  glides  by 
Amid  a  multitude  of  flowers, 
As  countless  as  tlie  stars  on  high ; 

These  red-tiled  roofs,  this  fruitful  soil. 
Bathed  with  an  azure  all  divine, 
Where  springs  the  tree  that  gives  us  oil, 
The  grape  that  giveth  us  the  wine ; 

Beneath  these  mountains  stripped  of  trees, 
Whose  tops  with  flowers  arc  covered  o'er; 
Where  springtime  of  the  Hesperides 
Begins,  but  endetli  nevermore; 

Under  these  leafy  vaults  and  walls, 
That  unto  gentle  sleep  persuade ; 


AIGUES-MOKTES.  23 

This  rainbow  of  the  waterfalls, 

Of  mingled  mist  and  sunshine  made ; 

Upon  these  shores,  where  all  invites, 
We  live  our  languid  life  apart ; 
This  air  is  that  of  life's  delights, 
The  festival  of  sense  and  heart ; 

This  limpid  space  of  time  prolong, 
Forget  to-morrow  in  to-day. 
And  leave  unto  the  passing  throng 
The  sea,  the  town,  and  the  higliwaj. 

/.  Mei-y.     Tr.  Henry  WadsvyOrth  Longfellow. 


Aigues-Mortes, 

AIGUE-MORTE. 

FOREVER  misery  and  sure  decay 
Succeed  a  haughty  pride  and  mighty  sway. 
Aigue-Morte,  whose  twenty  towers  still  face  the  sea, 
Consumptive  city,  sinking  wretchedly, 
Dies  like  an  owl  in  hollow  of  her  nest. 
Like  shrivelled  knight  still  in  full  armor  drest, 
As  in  the  almshouse  yard  the  beggar  dies 
With  naught  to  bless  him  but  the  summer  skies. 
Bordered  with  huts  of  reeds  is  old  Aigue-Morte, 
Some  noble  ships  still  anchor  in  its  port. 
Harassed  by  w-ant  the  mn^ody  fisher  bends. 
With  wood  as  old  some  shuttered  wherry  mends. 
And  yet  this  place  of  gasping  want  and  pain 


24  POEMS    or   PLACES. 

Can  count  its  golden  links  in  time's  long  chain. 
These  walls  still  standing  as  of  old  they  stood. 
Whose  dull-hued  verdure  paints  the  solitude. 
Once  held  tlie  Orient's  most  y)recious  store, 
And  turbaned  Moslems,  wave-like,  pressed  the  shore. 
In  holy  anger,  twice  a  pilgrim  king 
Hence  set  his  thousand  galleys  on  tlie  wing, 
When  full  of  zeal  to  work  his  high  design 
And  sweep  the  Crescent  out  of  Palestine. 
Here  haughty  barons  clad  in  coats  of  mail 
(Venice  had  linked  and  burnished  every  scale) 
Waved  from  their  glittering  helmets,  floating  wide 
The  ostrich  plume  or  pheasant-crest  of  pride. 
O'er  all  the  oriflamme  here  floated  free, 
Brouglit  from  the  gloomy  sliades  of  St.  Denis, 
When  France  commanded,  danger  pressing  nigh. 
That  all  her  sons  should  conquer  or  should  die. 
Two  peoples  figured  in  their  kings  here  met. 
And  with  a  kiss  the  seal  of  peace  was  set. 
Gold,  purple,  azure,  for  the  jousts  were  spread, 
Vying  in  splendor  with  the  heavens  o'erhead; 
Afar  was  borne  the  martial  trumpet's  sound. 
The  charger's  hoofs  impatient  smote  the  ground. 
From  splendid  balconies  there  fluttered  now 
Fair  ladies'  gloves  to  greet  the  victor's  brow. 
Lo !  all  now  sleeps,  —  vanished  the  splendid  train, 
These  silent  shores  alone  to  us  remain. 
In  the  dry  marsh  is  heard  the  plaintive  bird 
Whose  heavy  flight  the  tamarisk  has  stirred ; 
The  wave  that  rocks  with  solemn  beat  and  slow 
Like  an  eternal  pendule  to  and  fro, 

Jean  Hebnid.      Tr.  Charlotte  Fiske  Bates. 


ANGIEIIS    (angers).  25 

Angiei^s  [Angers). 

AiNGIERS. 

KING  JOHN.     These  flags  of  France,  that  are  ad- 
vauced  here 
Before  the  eye  and  prospect  of  your  town. 
Have  hither  march'd  to  your  endamagement. 
The  cannons  have  their  bowels  full  of  wrath; 
And  ready  mounted  are  they,  to  spit  forth 
Their  iron  indignation  'gainst  your  walls. 
All  preparation  for  a  bloody  siege, 
And  merciless  proceeding  by  these  French, 
Confront  your  city's  eyes,  your  winking  gates; 
And,  but  for  our  approach,  those  sleeping  stones, 
That  as  a  waist  do  girdle  you  about. 
By  the  compulsion  of  their  ordinance. 
By  this  time  from  their  fixed  beds  of  Ume 
Had  been  dishabited,  and  wide  havoc  made 
For  bloody  power  to  rush  upon  your  peace. 
But,  on  the  sight  of  us,  your  lawful  King, 
Who  painfully,  with  much  expedient  march. 
Have  brought  a  counter-check  before  your  gates. 
To  save  unscratcii'd  your  city's  threaten'd  cheeks  — 
Behold !  the  French,  amazed,  vouchsafe  a  parle. 
And  now,  instead  of  bullets  wrapped  in  fire. 
To  make  a  shaking  fever  in  your  walls, 
Tiiey  shoot  but  calm  words,  folded  up  in  smoke. 
To  make  a  faithless  error  in  your  ears  -. 


26  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Wliicli  trust  accordingly,  kind  citizens, 
And  let  us  in,  your  King,  whose  labor'd  spirits, 
Forwearied  in  this  action  of  swift  speed. 
Crave  harborage  within  your  city-walls. 

William  Shakespeare. 


ANGIERS. 

FRENCH   HERALD.     You   men   of  Anglers,    open 
wide  your  gates. 
And  let  young  Arthur,  Duke  of  Bretagne,  in; 
Who,  by  the  hand  of  France,  this  day  hath  made 
Much  work  for  tears  in  many  an  English  mother. 
Whose  sons  lie  scatter'd  on  the  bleeding  ground. 
Many  a  widow's  husband  groveling  lies, 
Coldly  embracing  the  discolor'd  earth ; 
And  Victory,  with  little  loss,  doth  play 
Upon  the  dancing  banners  of  the  French, 
Triumphantly  dlsplay'd ;  who  are  at  hand, 
To  enter  conquerors,  and  to  proclaim 
Arthur  of  Bretagne,  England's  King,  and  yours. 

{Edfer  an  English  Herald,  with  trumpets.) 

English    Herald.    Rejoice,   you    men    of    Angiers, 
riug  your  bells  ; 
King  John,  your  king  and  England's,  doth  approach 
Commander  of  this  iiot  malicious  day. 
Their  armours,  that  march'd  hence  so  silver-bright, 
Hither  return  all  gilt  with  Frenchmen's  blood; 
There  stuck  no  plume  in  any  English  crest. 
That  is  removed  bv  a  staff  of  France : 


ARDENxXES.  27 

Our  colours  do  return  iu  tUose  same  liauds 
That  did  dis[)lay  them  wheu  we  first  march'd  forth; 
And,  like  a  jolly  troop  of  huntsmen,  come 
Our  lusty  Euglisli,  all  with  purpled  hands. 
Dyed  in  the  dying  slaughter  of  their  foes. 
Open  your  gates,  and  give  the  victors  way. 

William  Shakespeare. 


Ardennes, 

ARDENNES. 

DUKE.     Now,  my  co-mates,  and  brothers  in  exile, 
Hath  not  old  custom  made  this  life  more  sweet 
Tlian  that  of  painted  pomp  ?     Are  not  these  woods 
More  free  from  peril  than  the  envious  court  ? 
Here  feel  we  not  the  penalty  of  Adam. 
The  seasons'  difference,  as  the  icy  fang. 
And  churlish  chiding  of  the  winter's  wind,  — 
Which  when  it  bites  and  blows  upon  my  body, 
Even  till  I  shrink  with  cold,  I  smile,  and  say, 
This  is  no  flattery, — these  are  counsellors 
That  feelingly  persuade  me  what  I  am. 
Sweet  are  the  uses  of  adversity. 
Which,  like  the  toid,  ugly  and  venomous. 
Wears  yet  a  precious  jewel  in  his  head ; 
And  this  our  life,  exempt  from  public  haunt, 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks. 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  every  thing. 

Amiens.    I  would  not  change  it:  Happy  is  your  grace, 


28  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

That  can  translate  the  stubbornness  of  fortune 
Into  so  quiet  and  so  sweet  a  style. 

Duke.     Come,  shall  we  go  and  kill  us  venison  ? 
And  yet  it  irks  me,  the  poor  dappled  fools. 
Being  native  burghers  of  this  desert  city. 
Should,  in  their  own  confines,  with  forked  heads 
Have  their  round  haunches  gor'd. 

1  Lord.  Indeed,  my  lord. 

The  melancholy  Jaques  grieves  at  that; 
And,  in  that  kind,  swears  you  do  more  usurp 
Than  doth  your  brotlier  that  hath  banish'd  you. 
To-day,  my  lord  of  Amiens  and  myself 
Did  steal  behind  him,  as  he  lay  along 
Under  an  oak,  whose  antique  root  peeps  out 
Upon  the  brook  that  brawls  along  this  wood; 
To  the  which  place  a  poor  sequester'd  stag, 
That  from  the  hunter's  aim  had  ta'en  a  hurt. 
Did  come  to  languish :  and,  indeed,  my  lord. 
The  wretched  animal  heav'd  forth  such  groans, 
That  their  discharge  did  stretch  his  leathern  coat 
Almost  to  bursting;  and  the  big  round  tears 
Cours'd  one  another  down  his  innocent  nose 
Tn  piteous  chase  ;  and  thus  the  hairy  fool, 
Much  marked  of  the  melancholy  Jaques, 
Stood  on  the  extremest  verge  of  the  swift  brook. 
Augmenting  it  with  tears. 

Duke.  But  what  said  Jaques? 

Did  he  not  moralize  this  spectacle  ? 

1  Lord.     O   yes,  into  a  thousand  similes. 
First,  for  his  weeping  into  the  needless  stream  ; 
"Poor  deer,"  quoth  he,  "thou  mak'st  a  testament 


ARDENNES.  29 

As  worldlings  ao,  giving  thy  sum  of  more 

To  that  which  had  too  much."     Then,  being  alone, 

Left  and  abandon'd  of  his  velvet  friends  ; 

" 'T  is  right,"  quoth  he;  "this  misery  doth  part 

The  flux  of  company."     Anon,  a  careless  herd. 

Full  of  the  pasture,  jumps  along  by  him, 

And  never  stays  to  greet  him  :  "  Ay,"  quoth  Jaques, 

"  Sweep  on,  you  fat  and  greasy  citizens ; 

'T  is  just  the  fashion  :  Wherefore  do  you  look 

Upon  that  poor  and  broken  bankrupt  there  ?  " 

Thus  most  invectively  he  pierceth  through 

The  body  of  the  country,  city,  court. 

Yea,  and  of  this  our  life ;  swearing  that  we 

Are  mere  usurpers,  tyrants,  and  what's  worse, 

To  fright  the  animals,  and  to  kill  them  up. 

In  their  assign'd  and  native  dwelling-place. 

Williain  Shakespeare. 

SONG. ' 

UNDER  the  greenwood  tree 
Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 
And  turn  his  merry  note 
Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat. 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither : 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun, 
And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 


30  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Seeking  the  food  lie  eats, 
And  pleas'd  with  what  he  gets, 
Come  hither,  come  hither,  come  hither: 
Here  shall  he  see 
No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

If  it  do  come  to  pass. 
That  any  man  turn  ass, 
Leaving  his  wealth  and  ease, 
A  stubborn  will  to  please, 
Ducdame,  ducdame,  ducdame : 
Here  shall  he  see 
Gross  fools  as  he. 

An  if  he  will  come  to  me. 

IVlHiam  Shakespeare. 


ARDENNES. 

A  FOOL,  a  fool !  —  I  met  a  fool  i'  the  forest, 
A  motley  fool;  a  miserable  world  1 
As  I  do  live  by  food,  I  met  a  fool, 
Who  laid  him  down  and  bask'd  him  in  the  sun. 
And  rail'd  on  lady  Fortune  in  good  t£rms, 
Tn  good  set  terms, — aud  vet  a  motley  fool. 
"Good  morrow,  fool,"  rpioth  I:   "No,  sir,"  quoth  he, 
"Call  me  not  fool,  till  heaven  liath  sent  me  fortune." 
And  then  he  drew  a  dial  from  iiis  poke. 
And,  lookiug  on  it  M^ith  lack-lustre  eye, 
Says  very  wisely,  "  It  is  ten  o'clock : 
Thus  may  we  see,"  quotii  he,  "  how  tiie  world  wags : 


ARDENNES.  31 

'T  is  but  an  liour  ago  since  it  was  nine. 
And  after  an  hour  more  't  will  be  eleven : 
And  so  from  hour  to  hour  we  rips  and  ripe, 
And  then  from  hour  to  hour  we  rot  and  rot; 
And  thereby  hangs  a  tale."     When  I  did  hear 
The  motley  fool  thus  moral  on  the  time, 
My  lungs  began  to  crow  like  chanticleer, 
That  fools  should  be  so  deep-contemplative; 
And  I  did  laugh,  sans  intermission. 
An  hour  by  his  dial.  —  O,  noble  fool ! 
A  worthy  fool !     Motley's  the  only  wear. 

William  Shakespeare. 


THE  FOREST  OF  ARDENNES. 

AMID  tbe  wildwood's  lone  and  difficult  ways, 
Where  travel  at  great  risk  e'en  men  in  arms, 
I  pass  secure,  —  for  only  me  alarms 
That  sun  which  darts  of  living  love  the  rays. 
Singing  fond  thoughts  in  simple  lays  to  lier 
Whom  time  and  space  so  little  hide  from  me. 
E'en  here  her  form,  nor  hers  alone,  I  see, 
But  maids  and  matrons  in  each  beech  and  fir. 
Methinks  I  hear  her  where  the  bird's  soft  moan, 
Tlie  sighing  leaves,  I  hear,  or  through  the  dell 
Where  its  bright  lapse  some  murmuring  rill  pursues. 
Rarely  of  shadowing  wood  the  silence  lone. 
The  solitary  horror,  pleased  so  well, 
Except  that  of  my  sun  too  much  I  lose. 

Francesco  Petrarca.     Tr.  Macgregor. 


32  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

ArgeVes, 

ABOVE,  UPON  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

ABOVE,  upon  the  mountains, 
A  slieplierd,  full  of  thought. 
Beneath  a  beecli  sat  niusmg 

On  changes  time  had  wrought: 
He  told  to  every  echo 

The  story  of  his  care, 
And  made  the  rocks  acquainted 
With  love  and  its  despair. 

*'  0  light  of  heart !  "  he  murmured, 

"  O  fickle  and  unkind  ! 
Is  this  the  cold  return 

My  tenderness  should  find  ? 
Is  this  a  fit  reward 

Eor  tenderness  like  mine?  — 
Since  thou  hast  sought  a  sphere 

Where  rank  and  riches  siiine, 

"  Thou  canst  not  cast  a  thought 

Upon  my  lowly  cot ; 
And  all  our  former  vows 

Are  in  thy  pride  forgot. 
For  thee  to  euler  in, 

My  roof  is  far  too  low, 
Thy  very  flocks  disdain 

With  mine  to  wander  now. 


ARGEL^S, 

**  Alas !  I  have  no  wealth. 

No  birth,  no  noble  name, 
A  simple  shepherd  youth 

Without  a  hope  or  claim; 
But  none  of  all  the  train 

That  now  thy  favors  share 
Can  bear  as  I  have  borne. 

Or  with  my  love  compare, 

**  I  'd  rather  keep  ray  habits, 

Though  humble  and  untaught. 
Than  learn  the  ways  of  courts, 

With  dangerous  falsehood  fraught 
I  'd  rather  wear  my  bonnet. 

Though  rustic,  wild,  and  worn. 
Than  flaunt  in  stately  plumes 

Of  courtiers  luglily  born. 

"The  riches  of  the  world 

Bring  only  care  and  pain. 
And  nobles  great  and  grand 

With  many  a  rich  domain. 
Can  scarcely  half  the  pleasures, 

With  all  their  art,  secure. 
That  wait  upon  the  shepherd 

Who  lives  content  and  poor. 

"Adieu,  thou  savage  heart! 

Thou  fair  one  without  love; 
I  break  the  chain  that  bound  us, 

And  thou  art  free  to  rove. 


34  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  know,  when  in  thy  vanity 

Tliou  wunderest  alone, 
No  heart  like  mine  will  ever 

Adore  as  I  Lave  done." 
Cijprien  DeapoHrrins.     Tr.  Louisa  Stuart  Costello. 


ArgenteuiL 

ELOiSA  TO  A13ELARD. 

IN  these  deep  solitudes  and  awful  cells. 
Where  heavenly-pensive  contemplation  dwells. 
And  ever-musing  melancholy  reigns. 
What  means  this  tumult  in  a  Vestal's  veins  ? 
Why  rove  my  thoughts  beyonc|  this  last  retreat  ? 
Why  feels  my  heai't  its  long-tbrgt)tten  heat  ? 
Yet,  yet  I  love! — From  Abelard  it  came. 
And  Eloisa  yet  must  kiss  the  name. 

Dear  fatal  name  !    rcst  ever  unrevealed, 
Nor  pass  these  lips  in  iioly  silence  sealed : 
Hide  it,  my  lieart,  within  that  close  disguise 
Where,  n>ixed  with  God's,  his  loved  idea  lies  : 
O,  write  it  not  my  hand,  —  the  name  appears 
Already  wi'itten,  —  wash  it  out,  my  tears  1 
111  vain  lost  Eloisa  wee[)s  and  ])niys. 
Her  heart  still  dictates,  and  her  hand  obeys. 

Relentless  walls,  whose  darksome  round  contains 
Repentant  sighs  and  voluntary  pains; 


ARLES.  35 

Ye  rugged  rocks,  which  holy  knees  have  worn ; 

Ye  grots  and  caverns,  shagged  with  horrid  thorn; 

Siirines,  where  their  vigils  pale-eyed  virgins  keep ; 

And  })itying  saints,  whose  statues  learn  to  weep,  — 

Though  cold  like  you,  unmoved  and  silent  grown, 

I  have  not  yet  forgot  myself  to  stone. 

All  is  not  Heaven's  while  Abelard  has  part. 

Still  rebel  nature  holds  out  lialf  my  heart ; 

Nor  prayers  nor  fasts  its  stubborn  pulse  restrain. 

Nor  tears  for  ages  taught  to  flow  in  vain. 

Alexander  Pope. 


Aries, 

ARLES. 

TO-DAY,  fair  Aries,  a  harvester  thou  seemest, 
Who  slecpest  on  thy  threshing-floor,  and  dreamest 
Of  glories  past ;  but  a  queen  wert  thou  then. 
And  mother  of  so  brave  seafaring  men, 
The  noisy  winds  themselves  aye  lost  their  way 
In  the  great  harbor  where  tliy  shipping  lay. 

Rome  had  arrayed  tliee  in  white  marble  newly. 
As  an  imperial  princess  decked  thee  duly. 
Thy  brow  a  crown  of  stately  columns  wore ; 
The  gates  of  thy  arenas  were  sixscorc; 
Thou  liadst  thy  theatre  and  hippodrome, 
So  to  make  mirth  in  thy  resplendent  home  ! 


36  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

We  pass  within  the  gates.     A  crowd  advances 
Toward  the  theatre,  with  songs  and  dances. 
We  join  them ;  and  the  eager  thousands  press 
Through  the  cool  colonnades  of  palaces ; 
As  tliou,  mayhap,  a  mighty  flood  hast  seen 
Rush  through  a  maple-shaded,  deep  ravine. 

Arrived,  —  O,  shame  and  sorrow  !  —  we  saw  there 

On  the  proscenium,  with  bosoms  bare, 

Young  maidens  waltzing  to  a  languid  lyre, 

And  high  refrain  sung  by  a  shrill-voiced  choir. 

They  in  the  mazes  of  their  dance  surrounded 

A  marble  shape,  whose  name  like  "Yenus"  sounded. 

The  frenzied  populace  its  clamor  adds 

Unto  the  cries  of  lasses  and  of  lads. 

Who  shout  their  idol's  praises  o'er  and  o'er, — 

"  Hail  to  thee,  Venus,  of  joy  the  bestower ! 

Hail  to  thee,  Venus,  goddess  of  all  grace ! 

Mother  of  earth  and  of  the  Arlesian  race  !  " 

The  statue,  myrtle-crowned,  with  nostrils  wide 

And  head  higli-borne,  appears  to  swell  with  pride 

Amid  tlie  incense-clouds ;  when  suddenly. 

In  horror  of  so  great  audacity, 

Leaps  Trophimus  amid  the  maddened  wretches. 

And  o'er  the  bewildered  tlirong  his  arms  outstretches. 

"People  of  Aries!"  in  mighty  tones  he  cried, 

"  Hear  me,  even  for  the  sake  of  Christ  who  died  !  " 

No  more.     But,  smitten  by  his  shaggy  frown, 


ARLES.  37 

The  idol  groaned  and  staggered,  and  fell  down, 

Headlong,  from  off  its  marble  pedestal. 

Fell,  too,  the  awe-struck  dancers,  one  and  all. 

Therewith  went  up,  as  't  were,  a  single  howl ; 
Choked  were  the  gateways  with  a  rabble  foul. 
Who  through  all  Aries  spread  terror  and  dismay, 
So  that  patricians  tore  their  crowns  away; 
And  all  the  enraged  youth  closed  round  us  there, 
While  flashed  a  thousand  poniards  in  the  air. 

Yet  they  recoiled;  —  whether  it  were  the  sight 

Of  us,  in  our  salt-crusted  robes  bedight ; 

Or  Trophimus'  calm  brow  which  beamed  on  them, 

As  wreathed  with  a  celestial  diadem  ; 

Or  tear-veiled  Magdalen,  who  stood  between  us, 

How  tenfold  fairer  than  their  sculptured  Yenus ! 

Frederic  Mistral.     Tr.  Harriet  W.  Preston. 


ARLES. 

AT  Aries  in  the  Carlovingian  days. 
By  the  swift  Rhone  water, 
A  hundred  thousand  on  either  side, 
Christian  and  Saracen  fought  till  the  tide 
Ran  red  with  the  slaughter. 


May  God  forefend  such  another  flood 

Of  direful  war ! 
The  Count  of  Orange  on  that  black  morn 


38  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

By  seven  great  kings  was  overborne, 
And  fled  afar, 

Wbenas  he  would  avenge  the  death 

Of  his  nephew  slain. 
Now  are  the  kings  upon  his  trail; 
He  slays  as  he  flies;  like  fiery  hail 

His  sword-strokes  rain. 

He  hies  him  into  the  Aliscamp,^ 

No  shelter  there ! 
A  Moorish  hive  is  tlie  liome  of  the  dead. 
And  hard  he  spurs  his  goodly  steed 

In  his  despair. 

Over  the  mountain  and  over  the  moor 

Elies  Count  Guillaume ; 
By  sun  and  by  moon  he  ever  sees 
The  coming  cloud  of  his  enemies; 

Thus  gains  his  home. 

Halts,  and  lifts  at  the  castle  gate 

A  mighty  cry, 
Calling  his  haughty  wife  by  name, 
"  Guibour,  Guibour,  my  gentle  dame. 

Open  !     'T  is  I ! 

"  Open  the  gate  to  thy  Guillaume, 

Ta'en  is  the  city 
By  thirty  thousand  Saracen, 

1  The  Aliscanip,  tliat  is,  Elysii  Canipi  —  nn  ancient  cemetery  near  Aries, 
supposed  to  have  been  consecrated  by  Cluist  in  person. 


ARLES.  39 

Lo,  they  are  Imiiting  me  to  my  den; 
Guibour,  have  pity  !  " 

But  the  countess  from  tlie  rampart  cried, 

"Nay,  chevalier, 
I  will  not  open  my  gates  to  thee; 
Tor,  save  the  women  and  babes,"  said  she, 

"  Whom  I  shelter  here, 

"  And  the  priest  who  keeps  the  lamps  alight, 

Alone  am  I. 
My  brave  Guillaume  and  his  barons  all 
Are  fighting  the  Moor  by  the  AHscamp  wall. 

And  scorn  to  fly ! " 

*'Guibour,  Guibour,  it  is  I  myself! 

And  those  men  of  mine, 
(God  rest  their  souls !)  they  are  dead,"  he  cried, 
"Or  rowing  with  slaves  on  the  salt  sea-tide. 

I  have  seen  the  shine 

"Of  Aries  on  fire  in  the  dying  day; 

I  have  heard  one  shriek 
Go  up  from  all  the  arenas  where 
The  nuns  disfigure  their  bodies  fair 

Lost  the  Marran  wreak 

"His  brutal  will.     Avignon's  self 

Will  fall  to-day  ! 
Sweetheart,  I  faint ;  0,  let  me  in 
Before  the  savage  Mograbin 

Fall  on  his  prey ! " 


40  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"I  swear  thou  liest,"  cried  Guibour, 

"  Thou  base  deceiver ! 
Thou  art  perchance  ilijself  a  Moor 
Who  whinest  tlius  outside  my  door, 
My  Guillaume,  never ! 

"Guillaume  to  look  on  burning  towns 
And  fired  by — thee! 

Guillaume  to  see  his  comrades  die. 

Or  borne  to  sore  captivity, 
And  ilien  to  flee ! 

"  He  knows  not  flight !     He  is  a  tower 

Wliere  others  fly ! 
The  heathen  spoiler's  doom  is  sure, 
The  virgin's  honor  aye  secure, 

When  he  is  by  ! " 


Guillaume  leapt  up,  his  bridle  set 

Between  his  teeth. 
While  tears  of  love  and  tears  of  shame 
Under  his  burning  eyelids  came, 

And  hard  drew  breath 

And  seized  his  sword  and  plunged  his  spurs 

Right  deep,  and  so 
A  storm,  a  demon,  did  descend 
To  roar  and  smite,  to  rout  and  rend 

The  Moorish  foe. 


ARRAS.  41 

As  when  one  shakes  an  ahnond-tree. 

The  heathen  slam 
Upon  the  tender  grass  full  thick 
Until  the  flying  remnant  seek. 

Their  ships  again. 

Four  kings  with  his  own  hand  he  slew. 

And  when  once  more 
He  turned  him  homeward  from  the  fight, 
Upon  the  drawbridge  long  in  sight 

Stood  brave  Guibour. 

"By  the  great  gateway  enter  in. 

My  lord !  "  she  cried. 
And  might  no  further  welcome  speak. 
But  loosed  his  helm,  and  kissed  his  cheek. 

With  tears  of  pride. 
Frederic  Mistral.    Tr.  Harriet  IF.  Preston, 


Arras, 

THE  DUKE'S  EXEQUY. 

CLOTHED  in  sable,  crowned  with  gold. 
All  his  wars  and  councils  ended, 
Philip  lay,  surnamed  The  Bold  : 
Passing-bell  his  quittance  tolled, 
And  the  chant  of  priests  ascended. 


43  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Mailed  knights  aud  archers  stand. 
Thronging  in  the  church  of  Arras; 
Nevermore  at  his  coimnand 
Shall  they  scour  the  Netherlands 
Nevermore  the  outlaws  harass; 

Naught  is  left  of  his  array 

Save  a  barren  territory; 

Forty  years  of  generous  sway 
Sped  his  princely  hordes  away, 

Bartered  all  his  gold  for  glory, 

Forth  steps  Flemish  Margaret  then, 
Striding  toward  the  silent  ashes ; 
And  the  eyes  of  armed  men 
Fill  with  startled  wonder,  when 
On  the  bier  her  girdle  clashes ! 

Swift  she  drew  it  from  her  waist. 
And  the  purse  and  keys  it  carried 

On  the  ducal  coffin  placed; 

Then  with  proud  demeanor  faced 
Sword  and  shield  of  him  she  married. 

"  No  incumbrance  of  the  dead 
Must  the  living  clog  forever; 

From  thy  debts  and  dues,"  she  said, 
"From  the  liens  of  thy  bed. 
We  this  day  our  line  dissever. 

"  From  thy  hand  we  gain  release. 
Know  all  present  by  this  token ! 


AUVERGNE.  43 

Let  the  dead  repose  in  peace. 
Let  the  claims  upon  us  cease, 
When  the  ties  that  bound  are  broken. 

**  Philip,  we  have  loved  thee  long, 
But,  in  years  of  future  splendor. 

Burgundy  shall  count  among 

Bravest  deeds  of  tale  and  song 
This,  our  widowhood's  surrender," 

Back  the  stately  duchess  turned. 
While  the  priests  and  friars  chanted, 
And  the  swinging  incense  burned: 
Thus  by  feudal  rite  was  earned 
Greatness  for  a  race  undaunted. 

Edmund  Clarence  Stedman. 


Auvergne. 

MONTAGNARDE. 

"T  WOULD  marry  my  daughter  dear; 

i-    But  she  shall  keep  from  the  band  away, 
Who  scour  the  country  far  and  near, 

And  pounce  from  their  rock  like  birds  of  prey. 
Mere  Colette  is  too  wise,  I  trow. 
To  give  her  daughter  to  such  as  thou." 

The  pretty  maid  at  the  lattice  stood, 

The  moon  was  dancing  along  the  stream; 


44  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"I  see  a  band  from  the  distant  wood, — 

O  mother,  look  liow  their  lances  gleam  ! " 
Mere  Colette  is  full  of  glee, 
Her  daughter  the  young  lord's  bride  shall  be. 

"Those  are  the  king's  bold  knights  who  ride, 
And  they  are  come  the  band  to  seize,"  — 

The  pretty  maiden  smiled  aside  : 

"  The  king  has  no  such  knights  as  these." 

Mere  Colette  to  her  bed  is  gone,  — 

The  young  maid  sits  at  her  window  lone. 

Midnight  sounds  from  St.  Jean's  deep  bell. 
Arms  are  clashing  and  swords  are  bright, 

Mere  Colette  has  rested  well 

Not  to  hear  the  sounds  that  night : 

Mere  Colette  has  but  sorry  cheer,  — 

The  Routiers  have  stolen  her  daughter  dear ! 

Anonymous.     Tr.  Louisa  Stuart  Costello. 


Avignon. 

AVIGNON. 

THE  July  day  drew  to  a  close,  the  fret  of  travel  past, 
Tiie  cool    and    mooidit   courlyard    of  the    inn   was 
gained  at  last, 
Where  oleanders  greeted  us  between  their  stately  ranks. 


AVIGNON.  45 

As  pink  and  proud  as  if  they  grew  on   native   Indian 

banks ; 
Seen   from    our   chamber-window's    ledge   they   looked 

more  strangely  fair. 
Like  blossomed  baskets  lightly  poised  upon  the  summer 

air. 

Wiien  came  the  sultry  morning  sun,  I  did  not  care  to  go 
On  dusty  roads,  but  stayed  to  see  my  oleanders  glow 
Within  their  shadowy  oasis ;  the  pilgrimage  was  long 
To    Petrarch's    home,    hot   alien    winds   dried   up    his 

dewy  song ; 
Though  Laura's  cheek,  with  centuries  sweet,  still  blushes 

at  his  call. 
Her  blush  was  not   so   bright  as  yours,  my   oleanders 

tall. 

And  fiercer  grew  the  summer  day,  while  in  the  court 

below 
The  white-capped  peasant-women  trim  kept  moving  to 

and  fro. 
With  little    laughs   and   endless   talks,   whose   murmur 

rose  to  me 
Like  the  spring  chats  of  careless  birds  from  blossomed 

apple-tree ; 
And,  hearing  it,  I  blessed  the  choice  that  held  me  there 

that  day, 
With  my  stately  oleanders  keeping  all  the  world  at  bay. 

The  masonry  of  Nismes  was  lost,  but  still  I  could  not 

sigh. 
For  Roman  work  looks  sad  when  we  have  bidden  Rome 

good  by ; 


46  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Prison  and  castle  of  the  Pope  stood  close  upon  the  hill. 
But  of  castle  and  of  prison  my  soul  had  had  its  fill  — 
I  knew  that  blood-stains,  old  and  dark,  clung   to   the 

inner  wall, 
And  blessed  the  lovely  living  bloom  of  oleanders  tall. 

Thou  pleasant,  pleasant  courtyard,  I   make   to   thee  a 

crown 
Of  gems,  from   Murray's  casket,  then  shut  the  red  lid 

down, 
Contented  if  I  still  may  keep,  beneath  a  sky  of  blue, 
The  tender   treasure   of  the  day  when  first   my   spirit 

knew 
Thy  quiet  and  thy  shadow  and  thy  bird-like  gossip,  all 
Enclosed  within  that  sunset  wreath  of  oleanders  tall. 

Maiia  Lowell. 

THE  MASSACRE  OF  AVIGNON. 

ROBESPIERRE  reigned  in  the  Place  de  Greve; 
And  in  distant  Avignon  his  word  was  doom. 
When  a  band  of  Royalists,  piously  brave. 
Were  marched  to  the  edge  of  their  gaping  tomb. 
As  they  went  on  their  way  they  sang,  — 
Tender  and  full  the  chorus  rang,  — 

A  Vheure  supreme.  Mere  cherie, 
Ora  pro  nobis,  Sauite  Marie ! 

The  maiden  young,  and  the  grandsire  old. 

And  the  child,  whose  prayers  were  shortly  told; 

And  the  cure,  walking  side  by  side 


AVIGNON.  47 

With  the  baron,  whose  name  was  his  only  pride  ; 

The  noble  dame  and  the  serving-maid,  — 

Neither  ashamed  nor  yet  afraid,  — 

A  wonderful  sight  they  were  that  day, 

Singing  still  as  they  went  their  way,  — 
A  rheure  supreme,  Mere  cherie, 
Ora  pro  nobis,  Sainie  Marie  !  >^ 

One  of  their  murderers,  waiting  nigh, 
Heard  them  singing  as  they  went  by, 
And  smiled  as  he  felt  the  edge  of  his  blade. 
At  the  fulness  of  music  their  voices  made. 
"  We  '11  stop  that  melody  soon,"  said  he, 
"In  spite  of  their  calling  on  Sainte  Marie." 
But  one  by  one  as  those  voices  fell, 
The  others  kept  up  the  chorus  well,  — 

A  riieure  supreme.  Mere  cherie, 

Ora  pro  nobis,  Sainte  Marie! 

When  all  the  victims  to  death  had  gone, 
And  the  last  sweet  music  was  hushed  and  done. 
When  the  pit  was  filled,  with  no  stone  to  mark. 
And  the  murderers  turned  through  the  closing  dark, 
One  of  them  wiped  his  sharp  knife  clean. 
Strode  over  the  soil  where  the  grave  had  been. 
And  hummed  as  he  went,  with  an  absent  air. 
Some  notes  just  cauglit  by  his  memory  there,  — 

A  Vheure  supreme.  Mere  cherie, 

Ora  pro  nobis,  Sainte  Marie! 

And  when  the  thought  of  that  day  grew  dim, 
Those  obstinate  words  still  clung  to  him. 


48  POEMS   OF    PLACES. 

He  was  a  man  who  said  no  prayers. 

But  bis  lips  would  fashion  them  unawares; 

They  mixed  with  his  dreams,  and  started  up 

To  check  the  curses  bred  in  his  cup  ; 

They  wove  him  round  in  a  viewless  net 

Of  thouglits  he  could  not,  though  fain,  forget. 

As  he  still  repeated,  again  and  again, 

The  gliostly  air  and  the  ancient  strain,  — 

A  Vheure  supreme.  Mere  cherie, 

Ora  pro  nobis,  Sainte  Marie! 

Thirty  years  were  counted  and  o'er; 
The  lilies  of  France  bloomed  out  once  more ; 
Tiie  grapes  which  hung  on  the  vines  were  rife. 
Like  the  penitent  man  on  the  threshold  of  life ; 
When  the  Angel  of  Death  with  healing  came 
For  one  who  in  Lyons  had  borne  no  name 
But  "Le  Frere  d'Aviguon  "  for  many  a  day; 
Who  living  and  dying  would  hourly  say 
('T  was  on  his  lip  as  he  passed  away), — 

A  Vheure  supreme.  Mere  cherie, 

Ora  pro  nobis,  Sainte  Marie  ! 

Bessie  Rayner  Parkes. 

THE  BELLS  OF  AVIGNON. 

AVIGNON  was  a  joyous  city, 
A  joyous  town  with  many  a  steeple, 
Towers  and  tourelles,  roofs  and  turrets, 
Sheltering  a  merry  people. 
Li  each  tower  the  bells  of  silver, 
Bronze,  or  iron,  swayed  so  proudly. 


AVIGXOX.  49 

Tolling  deep  and  swinging  cbeerlj, 
Beating  fast  and  beating  loudly. 

One  !  Two !  Three  !  Four !  ever  sounding ; 
Two!  Four!  One!  Three!  still  repeating; 
Five  !  Seven  !  Six  !  Eight !  hurrying,  chasing ; 
Bim-boni-bing-bang  merry  beating. 
All  the  day  the  dancing  sextons 
Dragged  at  bell-ropes,  rising,  falling; 
Clanging  bells,  inquiring,  answering, 
From  the  towers  were  ever  calling. 

Cardinals,  in  crimson  garments. 
Stood  and  listened  to  the  chiming  ; 
And  within  his  lofty  chateau 
Sat  the  Pope,  and  beat  the  timing ; 
Minstrels,  soldiers,  monks,  and  jesters 
Laughed  to  hear  the  merry  clamour. 
As  above  them  in  the  turrets 
Music  clashed  from  many  a  hammer. 

Avignon  was  a  joyous  city : 

Far  awa}'  across  the  bridges, 

'Mong  the  vine-slopes,  upward  lessening. 

To  the  brown  clifi's'  highest  ridges. 

Clamoured  those  sonorous  bells  ;  ~ 

In  the  summer's  noontide  •wrangling, 

In  one  silver  knot  of  music 

All  their  chimes  together  tangling. 

Showering  music  on  the  people 

llound  the  town-house  in  tlie  mornings ; 


50  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Scattering  joy  and  jubilations, 
Hope  and  welcome,  wrath  and  scornings; 
Ushering  kings,  or  mourning  pontiffs; 
Clanging  in  the  times  of  thunder. 
And  on  nights  when  conflagrations 
Clove  the  city  half  asunder. 

Nights  and  nights  across  the  river. 
Through  the  darkness  starry-dotted, 
Far  across  the  bridge  so  stately. 
Now  by  lichens  blurred  and  blotted. 
Came  that  floating,  mournful  music. 
As  from  bands  of  angels  flying. 
With  the  loud  blasts  of  the  tempest 
Still  victoriously  vying. 

Who  could  tell  why  Avignon 
All  its  bells  was  ever  pealing,  — 
Whether  to  scare  evil  spirits. 
Still  round  holy  cities  stealing  ? 
Yet,  perhaps,  that  ceaseless  chiming. 
And  that  pleasant  silver  beating, 
Was  but  as  of  children  playing, 
And  their  mother's  name  repeating. 

One !  Two !  Three !  the  bells  went  prattling, 
With  a  music  so  untiring;  • 

One !  Two  !  Three !  in  merry  cadence, 
"^  Rolling,  crashing,  clanging,  firing. 

Hence  it  was  that  in  past  ages. 
When  mid  war  those  sounds  seemed  sweeter. 


AVIGNON.  51 

La  Ville  Sonnante  people  called  it, 
City  sacred  to  Saint  Peter. 

Years  ago  !  but  now  all  silent, 

Lone  and  sad,  the  grass-grown  city  •- 

Has  its  bell-towers  all  deserted 

By  those  ringers,  —  more  's  the  pity. 

Pope  and  cardinal  are  vanished; 

And  no  music  fills  the  night  air; 

Gone  the  red  robes  and  the  sable. 

Gone  the  crosier  and  the  mitre. 

Walter  Thornbury. 

THE  WINE  OF  AVIGNON". 

GODS  my  life,  what  glorious  claret ! 
Blessed  be  the  ground  that  bare  it ! 
'T  is  Avignon.     Don't  say  a  flask  of  it ; 
Into  my  soul  I  pour  a  cask  of  it ! 

Francesco  Redi.     Tr.  Leigh  Hunt. 


Bareges. 

ON  RETURNING  FROM  BAREGES. 

I  LEAVE  you,  ye  cold  mountain-chains. 
Dwelling  of  warriors  stark  and  frore ! 
You  may  these  eyes  behold  no  more. 
Save  on  the  horizon  of  our  plains. 


52  POEMS    Of    PLACES. 

Vanish,  ye  frightful,  gloomy  views ! 
Ye  rocks  that  mount  up  to  the  clouds ! 
Of  skies,  enwrapped  in  misty  shrouds, 
Impracticable  avenues  ! 

Ye  torrents,  that  with  might  and  main 
Break  pathways  through  the  rocky  walls. 
With  your  terrific  waterfalls 
Fatigue  no  more  my  weary  bi'ain ! 

Arise,  ye  landscapes  full  of  charms ; 
Arise,  ye  pictures  of  delight ! 
Ye  brooks,  that  water  in  your  flight 
The  flowers  and  harvests  of  our  farms ! 

You  I  perceive,  ye  meadows  green. 
Where  the  Garonne  the  lowland  fills, 
Not  far  from  that  long  chain  of  hills, 
Witli  intermingled  vales  between. 

Y'"on  wreath  of  smoke,  that  mounts  so  high, 
Metliinks  from  my  own  hearth  must  come ; 
With  speed,  to  that  beloved  home 
Fly,  ye  too  lazy  coursers,  fly! 

And  bear  me  thither,  where  the  soul 

In  quiet  may  itself  possess, 

Wiiere  all  tilings  soothe  the  mind's  distress, 

Wiiere  all  tilings  teach  me  and  console. 

Jean-Jacques  Lefranc  de  Fompignan.      Tr.  Anoi 


BESANgON.  53 

Besancon, 

TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 

TOUSSAINT  !  —  tliou  most  unhappy  mau  of  men ! 
Whether  the  whistling  rustic  teuds-his  plough 
Withiu  thy  hearing,  or  tliou  liest  now 
Buried  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless-  dsn : 
O  miserable  chiettain !  —  where  and  when 
Wilt  thou  find  patience? — Yet  die  not,  do  thou 
Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  clieerful  brow; 
Though  fallen  tiiysclf,  never  to  rise  again. 
Live  and  take  comfort.     Tliou  hast  left  behind 
Powers  that  will  work  for  thee ;  air,  earth,  and  skies,  — 
There  's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 
That  will  forget  thee :  thou  hast  great  allies. 
Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies. 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 

William  Wordsworth. 

TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE. 

SLEEP  calmly  in  thy  dungeon-tomb, 
Beneath  Besan9on's  alien  sky. 
Dark  Haytieu  I  for  the  time  shall  come  — 

Yea,  even  now  is  nigh  — 
When,  everywhere,  thy  name  shall  be 
Redeemed  from  color's  infamy. 


54  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  men  shall  learn  to  speak  of  thee 
As  one  of  earth's  great  spirits,   born 
In  servitude,  and  nursed  in  scorn, 
Casting  aside  the  weary  weight 
And  fetters  of  its  low  estate. 
In  that  strong  majesty  of  soul 

Which  knows  no  color,  time,  or  clime,  — 
Which  still  hath  spurned  the  base  control 

Of  tyrants  through  all  time! 
Far  other  hands  than  mine  may  wreathe 
The  laurel  round  thy  brow  of  death. 
And  speak  thy  praise,  as  one  whose  word 
A  thousand  fiery  spirits  stirred,  — 
Who  crushed  his  foeman  as  a  worm,  — . 
Whose  step  on  human  hearts  fell  firm ;  — 
Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 
A  tribute  for  thy  lofty  mind. 
Amidst  whose  gloomy  vengeance  shone 
Some  milder  virtues  all  thine  own,  — 
Some  gleams  of  feeling  pure  and  warm, 
Like  sunshine  on  a  sky  of  storm,  — 
Proofs  that  the  negro's  heart  retains 
Some  nobleness  amidst  its  chains, — 
That  kindness  to  the  wronged  is  never 

Without  its  excellent  reward,  — 
Holy  to  human-kind,  and  ever 

Acceptable  to  God. 

John  Greenleaf  Whittier. 


BISCAY,    THE    BAY.  55 


Biscay,  the  Bay, 

■     THE  BAY  OF  BISCAY  0  ! 

LOUD  roared  the  dreadful  thunder. 
The  rain  a  deluge  showers; 
The  clouds  were  rent  asunder 
By  lightning's  vivid  powers ! 
The  night  both  drear  and  dark. 
Our  poor  devoted  bark, 
Till  next  day,  there  she  lay. 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay  0 ! 

Now  dashed  upon  the  billow, 
Her  opening  timbers  creak. 

Each  fears  a  watery  pillow. 
None  stops  the  dreadful  leak ! 

To  cling  to  slippery  shrouds, 

Each  breathless  seaman  crowds. 

As  she  lay,  till  the  day, 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay  0 ! 

At  length  the  wished-for  morrow 
Broke  through  the  hazy  sky; 

Absorbed  in  silent  sorrow, 
Each  heaved  a  bitter  sigh ! 

The  dismal  wreck  to  view. 

Struck  horror  to  the  crew 

As  she  lay,  on  that  day. 
In  the  Bay  of  Biscay  O  ! 


56  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Her  yielding  timbers  sever. 

Her  pitchy  seaiirs  are  rent, 
When  Heaven,  all  bounteous  ever. 

Its  boundless  mercy  sent; 
A  sail  in  siglit  appears, 
We  hail  her  with  three  cheers, 
Now  we  sail,  with  the  gale, 

From  the  Bay  of  Biscay  0  ! 

Andrew  Cherry. 


Blaye. 

GEOFFRY  RUDEL  AND  MELISANDA  OF  TRIPOLI, 

IN  the  Chateau  Blay  still  see  Ave 
Tapestry  tlie  walls  adorning, 
Worked  by  Tripoli's  fair  countess' 
Own  fair  hands,  no  labor  scorning. 

Her  whole  soul  was  woven  in  it. 
And  with  loving  tears  and  tender 

Hallowed  is  the  silken  picture. 

Which  the  following  scene  dotli  render: 

How  the  Countess  saw  Rudel 
Dying  on  tlie  strand  of  ocean, 

And  the  ideal  in  his  features 

Traced  of  all  lier  heart's  emotion. 

For  tlie  first  and  last  time  also 
Living  saw  Rudel  and  breathing 


BLAYE.  57 

Her  who  in  liis  every  vision 
lutertwiiiing  was  and  wreathing. 

Over  him  the  Countess  bends  her. 

Lovingly  liis  form  she  raises, 
And  his  deadly-pale  mouth  kisses, 

That  so  sweetly  sang  her  praises. 

Ah !  the  kiss  of  welcome  likewise 

Was  the  kiss  of  separation. 
And  they  dramed  the  cup  of  wildest 

Joy  and  deepest  desolation. 

In  the  Chateau  Blay  at  night-time 
Comes  a  rushing,  crackling,  shaking; 

On  the  tapestry  the  figures 
Suddenly  to  life  are  waking. 

Troubadour  and  lady  stretch  their 
Drowsy,  ghostlike  members  yonder, 

And  from  out  the  wall  advancing. 
Up  and  down  the  hall  they  wander. 

"Whispers  fond  and  gentle  toying, 
Sad-sweet  secrets,  heart-entbralling. 

Posthumous,  gallant,  soft  speeches. 
Minnesingers'  times  recalling : 

"  Gaoiiry  !  at  thy  voice's  music 

Warmth  is  in  my  dead  heart  glowing. 

And  I  feel  once  more  a  glimmer 

In  the  long-quenched  embers  growing !  " 

"Melisanda!  I  awaken 

Uuto  h.ippiness  and  gladness. 


58  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

When  I  see  thine  eyes;  dead  only 
Is  my  earthly  pain  and  sadness." 

*'  Geoffry !  once  we  loved  each  other 
In  our  dreams;  now,  cut  asunder 

By  the  hand  of  death,  still  love  we,  — 
A.mor  't  is  that  wrought  this  wonder ! " 

"  Melisanda  !  what  are  dreams  ? 

What  is  death?     Mere  words  to  scare  one! 
Truth  in  love  alone  e'er  find  we, 

And  I  love  thee,  ever  fair  one !  " 

"  Geoffry !  O,  how  sweet  our  meetings 
In  this  moonlit  chamber  nightly, 

Now  that  in  the  day's  bright  sunbeams 
I  no  more  shall  wander  lightly." 

"  Melisanda  !     Foolish  dear  one  ! 

Thou  art  light  and  sun,  thou  knowest ! 
Love  and  joys  of  May  are  budding, 

Spring  is  blooming,  where  thou  goest ! " 

Thus  those  tender  spectres  wander 
Up  and  down,  and  sweet  caresses 

Interchange,  whilst  peeps  the  moonlight 
Through  the  window's  arched  recesses. 

But  at  length  the  rays  of  morning 

Scare  away  the  fond  illusion; 
To  the  tapestry  retreat  they. 

On  the  wall,  in  shy  confusion. 

Helnrich  Heine.     Tr.  Edgar  Alfred  Bowring. 


BLOIS.  59 


Blots. 

TO  M.  LOUIS  BLANC,  IN  BLOIS. 

LEAVE  the  cliateau  behind  you,  black  and  strong, 
With  blood  upon  its  front  and  all  along 
The  tower  eight-sided,  where  are  Gorgon  heads 

Agape.     Pass  on,  leave  tower  and  town, 
CHmb  the  steep  hill  luxuriantly  green, 
On  whose  fresh  summit  one  tall  tree  alone 
Leans,  as  on  shining  helmet-top  doth  lean 
A  stately  plume ;  a  chestnut-tree  that  spreads 
Its  arms  so  far  you  see  it  as  you  come 
Dreaming  towards  it  from  the  antique  city's  gloom. 
The  plain  below  in  a  blue  mist  doth  lie; 
The  town  like  a  vast  amphitheatre  piled 
Climbs  to  the  church  ;    the  river  many-isled 
Moves  with  the  sails  whose  noiseless  white  wings  fly 
On  the  soft  wind,  and  far  beyond,  Chambord 

Shines  with  its  hundred  towers.     Before 
Your  thoughts  like  birds  light  on  the  distant  spires 

And  your  keen  glance  admires, 
Close  at  your  feet  look  down  upon 
An  old  stone  mansion  roofed  with  slate,  that  white 
And  square  stands  at  the  green  hill's  base  alone, 
Holding  itself  aloof  from  stranger  sight. 
But  mid  the  orchard's  bloom  expanding  bright 
With  joyous  freedom.     'Tis  my  father's  roof; 
Hither  he  came  after  the  wars  to  rest, 


60  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  many  a  time  my  verse  lias  g'iven  proof 

To  you,  dear  friend,  of  liow  I  loved  him  best. 

As  you,  if  you  had  known  him,  would  have  loved ! 

Think  there  in  precious,  thankful  ecstasy, 

Of  all  Yfho  love  you,  —  mother,  sister,  proved 

And  kind ;   and  there  for  love's  sake  say  of  me  : 

"!For  the  dear  friend  I  vreep. 
Who  sees  no  more  his  father,  fallen  asleep ; 
Who  has  lost  the  sacred  strength  that  did  defend 

With  sure  protection  all  his  days. 
The  truest  friend, 
Best  loved  always  ! 

"No  more  august  old  age  with  glory  crowned. 
Nor  beautiful  white  hair  by  sons  caressed, 
By  little  children  loved.     No  trumpet  sound 
Of  warlike  stories!     He  doth  calmly  rest. 
And  the  son  mourns,  of  life's  great  pride  bereft !  '* 
To  the  true  hearts  that  loved  him  naught  remains 
Of  the  stern  veteran  saved  from  bloody  plains, 
When  war  was  weary,  but  an  empty  tomb 

And  this  the  orphaned  home. 

That  white  below  the  hill 
Stands  emptied  of  his  love,  although 
It  wears  a  kindly  air  of  welcome  still. 
As  a  vase  keepeth  fast  and  sweet 
The  odor  of  the  perfumes  gone  from  it. 

Victor  Hnyo.     Tr.  Cora  Kennedy  Jit  ken. 


BORDEAUX.  61 


Bordeaux, 

BURDIGALA. 

IBLA.ME  my  impious  silence,  that  delays, 
Midst  cliiefest  cities,  to  record  thy  praise, 
My  birthplace !    rivers,  vineyards,  men,  thy  fame ; 
Genius,  and  manners,  and  a  senate's  name. 
Was  it,  that,  conscious  of.  a  slender  town, 
I  feared  to  give  thee  undeserved  renown? 
Not  so  I  blush ;    not  Rhine's  barbaric  shore, 
Or  Haemus'  icy  top  Ausonius  bore : 
Burdigala  the  soil  that  gave  me  birth ; 
Where  mild  the  sky,  and  rich  the  watered  earth : 
Long  springs,  brief  winters,  reign ;  hills  wooded  rise ; 
The  foaming  stream  with  tides  of  ocean  vies. 
Quadrangular  the  walls  ;    the  turrets  bear 
Their  battlements  amidst  the  clouds  of  air. 
Within,  the  parted  streets  may  wonder  raise. 
The  range  of  dwelHngs,  and  the  widening  ways. 
The  gates  that  front  where  crossing  spaces  spread, 
And  river  rushing  from  its  fountain-head ; 
While,  as  old  Ocean  heaves  his  flowing  tide, 
Tiie  buoyant  fleets  upon  its  bosom  ride. 
Why  name  the  fount,  with  Parian  stone  o'erlaid, 
Like  Euripus'  pent  frith,  with  foaming  motion  swayed? 
How  dark  the  shade  of  depth  !    how  swoln  the  surge  ! 
With  what  a  rush,  within  its  margent  verge. 
Poured    through   twelve    mouths    the    headlong   waters 
burst, 


62  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And,  unexhausted,  quench  a  people's  thirst ! 

This,  Median  king !    thy  numerous  camp  had  blest, 

When  the  deep  course  of  rivers  sank  deprest : 

This  wave  thy  train  througli  cities  might  have  borne, 

And  left  Choaspes'  native  stream  in  scorn. 

Hail,  secret  fount !    blest,  bounteous,  flowing  still, 
Dark,  azure,  glassy,  deep,  and  clear,  and  shrill: 
Hail,  genius  of  the  place !    the  patient  sips 
Thy  panacean  draughts  with  languid  lips  : 
The  name  of  Divona  the  Gauls  assign, 
0  heavenly  fountain,  and  indeed  divine  ! 
With  less  salubrious  draught  in  tepid  gush 
From  Aponus  the  bubbling  waters  rush  ; 
Less  pure  with  crystal  light  Nemausus  gleams, 
Less  full  Timavus  rolls  his  sea-swoln  streams. 

Aiisonius.     Tr.  Charles  Abraham  Elton. 


TO  THE  MEMORY  OF  EDWARD  THE  BLACK  PRINCE. 

OFOR  the  voice  of  that  wild  horn. 
On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne. 
The  dying  hero's  call. 
That  told  imperial  Charlemagne 
How  Paynim  sons  of  swarthy  Spain 

Had  wrought  his  champion's  fall. 

Sad  over  earth  and  ocean  sounding, 
And  England's  distant  cliffs  astounding. 

Such  are  the  notes  should  say 
How  Britain's  hope  and  France's  fear, 


BORDEAUX.  63 

Victor  of  Cressy  and  Poitier, 

In  Bourdeaux  dying  lay. 

"  Raise  my  faint  head,  my  squires,"  he  said, 
"And  let  the  casement  be  displaj^ed. 

That  I  may  see  once  more 
The  splendor  of  the  setting  sun 
Gleam  on  thy  mirrored  wave,  Garonne, 

And  Blaye's  empurpled  shore." 

"Like  me,  he  sinks  to  Glory's  sleep, 
His  fall  the  dews  of  evening  steep, 

As  if  in  sorrow  shed ; 
So  soft  shall  fall  the  trickling  tear. 
When  England's  maids  and  matrons  hear 

Of  their  Black  Edward  dead. 

"  And  though  my  sun  of  glory  set. 
Nor  France  nor  England  shall  forget 

The  terror  of  my  name  ; 
And  oft  shall  Britain's  heroes  rise. 
New  planets  in  these  southern  skies, 

Through  clouds  of  blood  and  flame." 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


64  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Boulogne, 

NAPOLEON  AND  THE  BRITISH  SAILOR. 

I  LOVE  contemplating,  apart 
From  all  his  homicidal  glory, 
The  traits  that  soften  to  our  lieart 
Napoleon's  story ! 

'Twas  when  his  banners  at  Boulogne 
Armed  in  our  island  every  freeman, 

His  navy  chanced  to  capture  one 
Poor  British  seaman. 

They  suffered  him  —  I  know  not  how  — 
Unprisoned  on  the  shore  to  roam ; 

And  aye  was  bent  liis  longing  brow 
On  England's  home. 

His  eye,  mefhinks,  pursued  the  flight 
Of  birds  to  Britain  half-way  over 

With  envy,  they  could  reach  the  white 
Dear  cliffs  of  Dover. 

A  stormy  midnight  watch,  he  thought, 

Than  tliis  sojourn  would  have  been  dearer, 

If  but  the  storm  his  vessel  brought 
To  England  nearer. 

At  last,  when  care  had  banished  sleep. 
He  saw  one  morning,  dreaming,  doating, 


BOULOGNE,  65 

All  eiupty  hogshead  from  the  deep 
Come  shoreward  floating. 

He  hid  it  iu  a  cave,  and  wrought 
The  Hvelong  day  laborious  ;  lurking 

Until  he  launclied  a  tiny  boat 
By  mighty  working. 

Heaven  help  us !    't  was  a  thing  beyond 
Description  wretched ;   such  a  wherry 

Perhaps  ne'er  ventured  on  a  pond 
Or  crossed  a  ferry. 

For  plougliing  in  the  salt  sea-field, 

It  would  iiave  made  the  boldest  shudder; 

Untarred,  uncompassed,  and  unkeeled. 
No  sail,  no  rudder. 

From  neighboring  woods  he  interlaced 
His  sorry  skiff  with  wattled  willows ; 

And  thus  equipped  he  would  have  passed 
The  foaming  billows; 

But  Frenchmen  caught  him  on  the  beach. 

His  little  Argo  sorely  jeering ; 
Till  tidings  of  him  chanced  to  reach 

Napoleon's  hearing. 

With  folded  arms  Napoleon  stood, 

Serene  alike  in  peace  and  danger; 
And  in  his  wonted  attitude. 

Addressed  the  stranger :  — 


66  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"Kaslii  nmn  that  wouldst  you  chauuel  pass 
On  twigs  and  staves  so  rudely  fashioned. 

Thy  heart  with  some  sweet  British  lass 
Must  be  impassioned." 

"I  have  no  sweetheart,"  said  the  lad; 

"But,  absent  long  from  one  another. 
Great  was  the  longing  that  I  had 

To  see  my  mother." 

"And  so  thou  shalt,"  Napoleon  said; 

"  Ye  've  both  my  favor  fairly  won ; 
A  noble  mother  must  have  bred 

So  brave  a  son." 

He  gave  the  tar  a  piece  of  gold. 

And  with  a  flag  of  truce  commanded 

He  should  be  shipped  to  England  Old, 
And  safely  landed. 

Our  sailor  oft  could  scantly  shift 

To  find  a  dinner  plain  and  hearty; 

But  never  changed  the  coin  and  gift 

Of  Bonaparte. 

Thomas  Campbell. 


BONCOURT.  67 


Boncourt. 

CHATEAU  BONCOURT. 

ADREA.M  wafts  me  back  to  childhood, 
And  I  shake  my  hoary  head. 
How  ye  crowd  on  my  soul,  ye  visions 
I  thought  were  forever  fled ! 

There  glistens  o'er  dusky  foliage 

A  lordly  pile  elate; 
I  know  those  towers  and  turrets. 

The  bridges,  the  massive  gate. 

Welcoming,  kindly  faces 

The  armorial  lions  show; 
I  greet  each  old  acquaintance 

As  in  through  the  arch  I  go. 

There  lies  the  Sphinx  at  the  fountain  ; 

There  darkly  tlie  fig-tree  gleams; 
'T  was  yonder,  behind  those  windows, 

I  was  rapt  in  my  earliest  dreams. 

I  enter  the  chapel,  and  look  for 
My  ancestor's  hallowed  grave; 

'T  is  here,  and  on  yonder  pillar 
Is  hanging  his  antique  glaive. 

I  try  to  decipher  tlie  legend. 
But  a  mist  is  upon  my  eyes. 


68  POEMS    or    PLACES. 

Though  the  light  from  the  painted  window 
Full  on  the  marble  lies. 

Home  of  my  fathers,  how  plainly 

Thou  standest  before  me  now ! 
Yet  thou  from  the  earth  art  vanished, 

And  over  thee  goes  the  plough. 

Fruitful,  dear  earth,  be  thou  ever; 

My  fondest  blessings  on  thee  ! 
And  a  double  blessing  go  with  him 

That  ploughs  thee,  whoe'er  he  be. 

For  me,  to  my  destiny  yielding, 

I  will  go  with  my  harp  in  my  hand. 

And  wander  the  wide  world  over, 
Singing  from  land  to  land. 

Ludolf  Adalbert  vo)i  Ckamisso.     Tr.  Anon. 


Bo  urg-la-Bein  e. 

BOUllG-LA-REINE. 

THROUGH  these  close-cut  alleys 
Paced  Gabrielle; 
At  her  side,  in  royal  pride, 

Henri  bon  et  bel. 
Ah!  my  love  across  the  sea, 
Dost  thou  love  me  as  well? 


BOURG-LA-KEINE.  69 

On  such  an  autumn  night, 

Long  years  ago, 
Fell  the  shadows  on  the  meadows 

Of  the  old  chateau ; 
All  along  the  gabled  roof 

The  moonlight  lay  like  snow. 

Trembliug  with  a  world 

Of  hope  and  fears. 
She  would  wait  by  this  old  gate 

Watching  through  her  tears. 
While  he  rode  from  Paris  streets, 

Unguarded  by  his  peers. 

He,  as  he  came  riding  on. 

Knew  full  well 
Where  she  stood  outside  this  wood; 

Many  a  song  doth  tell 
How  she  loved  this  knightly  king, 

La  charmante  Gabrielle ! 

Clash  and  clang  of  swords 

Soon  dies  away; 
Shrined  apart  in  a  people's  heart 

Love  lives  alway ; 
France  will  not  forget  this  name, 

Gabrielle  d'Estrees ! 

Bessie  Rayner  Parkes. 


70  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


CHARMING  GABRIELLE. 


MY  cliarniiiig  Gabiielle  ! 
My  heart  is  pierced  with  woe, 
When  glory  sounds  her  knell, 
And  forth  to  war  I  go. 

Parting,  perehance  our  last ! 

Day,  marked  unblest  to  prove! 
O  that  my  life  were  past, 
Or  else  my  hapless  love. 

Bright  star,  whose  light  I  lose, — 

0,  fatal  memory ! 
My  grief  each  thought  renews!  — 

We  meet  again,  or  die ! 
Parting,  etc, 

O,  share  and  bless  the  crown 

By  valor  given  to  me  ! 
War  made  the  prize  my  own, 

My  love  awards  it  thee ! 
Parting,  etc. 

Let  all  my  trumpets  swell, 

And  every  echo  round 
The  words  of  my  farewell 
Repeat  with  mournful  sound ! 
Parting,  etc. 
He/iri  IV.     Tr.  Louisa  Stuart  CosteUo. 


BRIENNE.  71 


Brienne, 

THE  SCHOOL-BOY  KING. 

A    SCENE    AT    BRIENNE. 

LE  PERE  PETRAULT  sliut  Virgil  up 
Just  as  the  clock  struck  teu : 
"This  little  Bonaparte,"  lie  said, 

"  Is  one  of  Plutarch's  men. 
To  see  him  with  his  massiv-e  head. 

Gripped  mouth,  and  swelling  brow. 
Wrestle  with  Euclid,  —  there  he  sat 
Not  half  an  hour  from  now." 

The  good  old  pedagogue  his  book 

Put  slowly  in  its  place : 
"That  Corsican,"  he  said,  "has  eyes 

Like  burning-glasses;  race 
Italian,  as  his  mother  said ; 

Barred  up  from  friend  and  foe, 
He  toils  all  night,  inflexible. 

Forging  it  blow  by  blow. 

"I  know  his  trick  of  thought,  the  way 

He  covers  up  his  mouth  : 
One  hand  like  this,  the  other  clenched,  — 

Those  eyes  of  the  hot  South. 
The  little  CjEsar,  how  he  strides, 

Sleep-walking  in  the  sun, 


72  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Only  awaking  at  tlie  roar 
Of  the  meridian  gun. 

"I  watched  him  underneath  my  book 

That  day  he  sprung  the  mine, 
For  wlien  the  earth-wall  rocked  and  reeled. 

His  eyes  were  all  a-shine ; 
And  when  it  slowly  toppled  down. 

He  leaped  up  on  the  heap 
With  fiery  haste, — just  as  a  wolf 

Would  spring  upon  a  sheep, 

"Pichegru,  Napoleon's  monitor. 

Tells  me  he  's  dull  and  calm. 
Tenacious,  firm,  submissive, — yes, 

Our  chain  is  on  his  arm. 
Volcanic  natures,  such  as  his, 

I  dread ;  —  may  God  direct 
This  boy  to  good,  the  evil  quell, 

His  better  will  direct. 

"Here  is  his  Euclid  book,  —  the  ink 

Still  wet  upon  the  rings; 
These  are  the  talismans  some  day 

He  '11  use  to  fetter  kings. 
To  train  a  genius  like  this  lad 

I  've  prayed  for  years,  —  for  years ; 
But  now  I  know  not  whether  hopes 

Are  not  half  choked  by  fears. 

"Last  Monday,  wlien  <hey  built  that  fort 
With  bastions  of  snow. 


BRIKNNE.  73 

The  ditch  and  spur  and  ravelin. 

And  terraced  row  on  row, 
'T  was  Bonaparte  who  cut  the  trench. 

Who  shaped  the  line  of  sap,  — 
A  year  or  two,  and.  he  will  be 

First  in  war's  bloody  gap. 

"I  see  him  now  upon  the  hill. 

His  bands  behind  his  back. 
Waving  the  tricolor  that  led 

The  vanguard  of  attack; 
And  there,  upon  the  trampled  earth. 

The  ruins  of  the  fort, 
This  Bonaparte,  the  school-boy  king. 

Held  his  victorious  court. 

"To  see  him  give  the  shouting  crowd 

His  little  hand  to  kiss. 
You  'd  think  him  never  meant  by  God 

For  any  lot  but  this. 
And  then  with  loud  exulting  cheers. 

Upon  their  shoulders  borne. 
He  rode  with  buried  Caesar's  pride 

And  Alexander's  scorn. 

"  Ah !  I  remember,  too,  the  day 

The  fire-balloon  went  up  ; 
It  burnt  away  into  a  star 

Ere  I  went  off  to  sup ; 
But  he  stood  weeping  there  alone 

Until  the  dark  night  canie, 


74  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

To  think  be  had  not  wings  to  fly 
And  catch  the  passing  flame. 

"O,  he  is  meant  for  mighty  things, 

This  leader  of  my  class;  — 
But  there  's  the  bell  that  rings  for  me, 

So  let  the  matter  pass. 
You  see  that  third-floor  window  lit, 

Tiie  blind  drawn  half-way  down; 

That  's  Bonaparte's,  —  he  's  at  it  now,  — 

It  makes  the  dunces  frown." 

Walter  Thornhury. 


Brittany. 

ADIEU  TO  BRITTANY. 

RUGGED  land  of  the  granite  and  oak, 
I  depart  with  a  sigli  from  thy  shore, 
And  with  kinsman's  affection  a  blessing  invoke 
On  the  maids  and  the  men  of  Arvor. 

For  the  Irish  and  Breton  are  kin, 

TIjough  the  lights  of  antiquity  pale 
In  the  point  of  the  dawn  where  the  partings  begin 

Of  the  Bolg  and  the  Kymro  and  Gael. 

But,  thougli  dim  in  the  distance  of  time 
Be  the  low-burning  beacons  of  fame, 

Holy  Nature  attests  us,  in  writing  sublime 
On  heart  and  on  visage,  tlie  same. 


BRITTANY.  75 

In  tJie  dark -eye-lashed  eye  of  blue-gray. 

In  the  open  look,  modest  and  kind, 
In  the  face's  fine  oval  reflecting  the  play 

Of  the  sensitive,  generous  mind; 

Till,  as  oft  as  by  meadow  and  stream 

With  thy  Maries  and  Josephs  I  roam, 
In  companionship  gentle  and  friendly  I  seem, 

As  with  Patrick  and  B rigid  at  home. 

Green,  meadow-fresh,  streamy-bright  land! 

Though  greener  meads,  valleys  as  fair. 
Be  at  home,  yet  the  home-yearning  heart  will  demand. 

Are  they  blest  as  in  Brittany  there  ? 

Demand  not,  —  repining  is  vain ; 

Yet  would  God  that  even  as  thou 
In  thy  homeliest  homesteads,  contented  Bretagne, 

Were  the  green  isle  my  thoughts  are  with  now! 

But  I  call  thee  not  golden:  let  gold 

Deck  the  coronal  troubadours  twine, 
Where  the  waves  of  the  Loire  and  Garoj^na  are  rolled 

Through  the  land  of  the  white  wheat  and  vine, 

And  the  fire  of  the  Frenchman  goes  up 
To  the  quick-thoughted,  dark-flashing  eye; 

While  Glory  and  Change,  quaffing  Luxury's  cup. 
Challenge  all  things  below  and  on  high. 

Leave  to  him  —  to  the  vehement  man 

Of  the  Loire,  of  the  Seine,  of  the  Rhone  — 


76  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

In  the  Idea's  liigh  patliways  to  marcli  in  the  van, 
To  o'erthrow,  and  set  up  the  o'er^rown; 

Be  it  thine  in  the  broad  beaten  ways 

Tliat  the  world's  simple  seniors  have  trod, 

To  walk  with  soft  steps,  living  peaceable  days. 
And  on  earth  not  forgetful  of  God, 

Nor  repine  that  thy  lot  has  been  cast 
With  the  things  of  the  old  time  before. 

For  to  thee  are  committed  the  keys  of  the  past, 
O  gray  monumental  Arvor. 

Yes,  land  of  the  great  Standing  Stones, 

It  is  thine  at  thy  feet  to  survey, 
From  thy  earlier  shepherd-kings'  sepulchre-thrones. 

The  giant,  far-stretching  array; 

Where,  abroad  o'er  tiie  gorse-covered  lande. 
Where,  along  by  the  slow-breaking  wave. 

The  hoary,  inscrutable  sentinels  stand 
In  their  night-watch  by  History's  grave. 

Preserve  them,  nor  fear  for  thy  charge ; 

From  the  prime  of  the  morning  they  sprung, 
When  the  works  of  young  Mankind  were  lasting  and 
large. 

As  the  will  they  embodied  was  young. 

I  have  stood  on  Old  Sarum  ;  ^  the  sun, 
With  a  pensive  regard  from  the  west, 

1  SorbioJunum,  i.e.  Service-tree-fort. 


BRITTANY.  77 

Lit  the  beech-tops  low  down  in  the  ditch  of  the  Dim, 
Lit  the  service-trees  high  on  its  crest : 

But  the  walls  of  the  Roman  were  shrunk 

Into  morsels  of  ruin  around, 
And  palace  of  monarch  and  minster  of  monk 

Were  effaced  from  the  grassy-fossed  ground. 

Like  bubbles  in  ocean,  they  melt, 

O  Wilts,  on  thy  long-rolling  plain. 
And  at  last  but  the  works  of  the  hand  of  the  Celt 

And  the  sweet  hand  of  Nature  remain. 

Even  so :  though,  portentous  and  strange, 

With  a  rumor  of  troublesome  sounds. 
On  his  iron  way  gliding,  the  Angel  of  Change 

Spread  his  dusky  wings  wide  o'er  thy  bounds, 

He  will  pass ;  there  '11  be  grass  on  his  track. 

And  the  pick  of  the  miner  in  vain 
Shall  search  the  dark  void ;  while  the  stones  of  Caruac 

And  the  word  of  the  Breton  remain. 

Farewell;  up  the  waves  of  the  Ranee, 

See,  we  stream  back  our  pennon  of  smoke : 

Farewell,  russet  skirt  of  the  fine  robe  of  France, 

Rugged  land  of  the  granite  and  oak ! 

Samuel  Ferguson, 


78  '  POEMS    or    PLACES. 


Brou, 

THE  CHURCH  OF  BROU. 
I. 

THE    CASTLE. 

DOWN  the  Savoy  valleys  sounding. 
Echoing  round  this  castle  old. 
Mid  the  distant  mountain  chalets, 

Hark !  what  bell  for  church  is  tolled  ? 

In  the  bright  October  morning 
Savoy's  Duke  had  left  his  bride, 

From  the  castle,  past  the  drawbridge, 
Flowed  the  hunters'  merry  tide. 

Steeds  are  neighing,  gallants  glittering  ; 

Gay,  her  smiling  lord  to  greet, 
From  her  mullioned  chamber  casement 

Smiles  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 

From  Vienna,  by  the  Danube, 

Here  she  came,  a  bride,  in  spring. 

Now  the  autumn  cnsi)s  the  forest; 
Hunters  gather,  bugles  ring. 

Hounds  are  pulling,  prickers  swearing. 
Horses  fret,  and  boar- spears  glance ; 


BROU.  79 

Off  !    they  sweep  the  marshy  forests. 
Westward,  on  the  side  of  France. 

Hark !  the  game  's  ou  foot ;  they  scatter ;  — 

Down  the  forest  ridings  lone, 
Furious,  single  horsemen  gallop. 

Hark  !  a  shout,  —  a  crash,  —  a  groan ! 

Pale  and  breathless  came  the  hunters ; 

On  the  turf  dead  lies  the  boar : 
God!  the  Duke  lies  stretched  beside  him, — 

Senseless,  Avelteriug  in  his  gore. 


In  the  dull  October  evening, 

Down  the  leaf-strewn  forest  road, 

To  the  castle,  past  tlie  drawbridge, 
Came  the  hunters  with  their  load. 

In  the  hall,  with  sconces  blazing. 
Ladies  waiting  round  her  seat. 

Clothed  in  smiles,  beneath  tlie  dais 
Sate  the  Duchess  Marguerite. 

Hark  !  below  the  gates  unbarring ! 

Tramp  of  men  and  quick  commands  ! 
"  'T  is  my  lord  come  back  from  hunting," 

And  the  Duchess  claps  her  hands. 

Slow  and  tired  came  the  hunters. 
Stopped  in  darkness  in  the  court ; 

"  Ho,  this  way,  ye  laggard  hunters ! 
To  the  hall  I  what  sport,  wliat  sport?" 


80     -  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Slow  they  entered  with  their  master; 

111  the  hall  they  laid  him  down. 
On  his  coat  were  leaves  and  blood-stanis 

On  his  brow  an  angry  frown. 

Dead,  her  princely  youthful  husband 
Lay  before  his  youthful  wife; 

Bloody,  'neath  the  flaring  sconces  : 
And  the  sight  froze  all  her  life. 

In  Vienna,  by  the  Danube, 

Kings  hold  revel,  gallants  meet; 

Gay  of  old  amid  the  gayest 
Was  the  Ducliess  Marguerite. 

In  Vienna,  by  the  Danube, 
*■     Feast  and  dance  her  youth  beguiled; 
Till  that  hour  she  never  sorrowed ; 
But  from  then  she  never  smiled. 

Mid  the  Savoy  mountain  valleys, 
Far  from  town  or  haunt  of  man, 

Stands  a  louely  church,  unfinished, 
Which  the  Duchess  Maud  began : 

Old,  that  Duchess  stern  began  it. 
In  gray  age,  with  palsied  hands; 


But  she  died  as  it  was  buildin 


ft' 


And  the  church  uullnished  stands  ; 

Stands  as  erst  the  builders  left  it, 
When  she  sunk  into  her  grave. 


BROU.  81 

Mountain  greensward  paves  the  chancel, 
Harebells  flower  in  the  nave. 

"  In  my  castle  all  is  sorrow," 

Said  the  Duchess  Marguerite  then ; 

"  Guide  me,  vassals,  to  the  mountains ! 
We  will  build  the  church  again." 

Sandalled  palmers,  faring  homeward, 
Austrian  knights  from  Syria  came ; 

"  Austrian  wanderers  bring,  0  warders, 
Homage  to  your  Austrian  dame." 

From  the  gate  the  warders  answered : 
"  Gone,  0  knights,  is  she  you  knew ; 

Dead  our  Duke,  and  gone  his  Duchess ; 
Seek  her  at  the  Church  of  Brou." 

Austrian  knights  and  march-worn  palmers 
Climb  the  winding  mountain  way, 

Reach  the  valley,  where  the  fabric 
Rises  higher  day  by  day. 

Stones  are  sawing,  hammers  ringing; 

On  the  work  the  bright  sun  shines : 
In  the  Savoy  mountain  meadows. 

By  the  stream,  below  the  pines. 

On  her  palfrey  white  the  Duchess 
Sate  and  watched  her  working  train  ; 

Flemish  carvers,  Lombard  gilders, 
German  masons,  smiths  froui  Spain. 


82  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Clad  in  black,  on  lier  white  palfrey; 

Her  old  architect  beside,  — 
There  they  found  her  in  the  mountains. 

Morn  and  noon  and  eventide. 

There  she  sate,  and  watched  the  builders, 
Till  the  church  was  roofed  and  done ; 

Last  of  all  the  builders  reared  her 
In  the  nave  a  tomb  of  stone. 

On  the  tomb  two  forms  they  sculptured 

Lifelike  in  the  marble  pale ; 
One,  the  Duke  in  helm  and  armor; 

One,  the  Duchess  in  her  veil. 

Round  the  tomb  the  carved  stone  fretwork 

Was  at  Eastertide  put  on; 
Then  the  Duchess  closed  her  labors ; 

And  she  died  at  the  St.  John. 


IL 


THE    CHURCH. 

Upon  the  glistening  leaden  roof 

Of  the  new  pile  the  sunlight  shines. 
The  stream  goes  leaping  by. 
The  hills  are  clothed  with  pines  sun-proof; 
Mid  bright  green  fields,  below  the  pines. 
Stands  the  church  on  high. 


BROU.  83 

What  church  is  this,  from  meu  aloof? 
'T  is  the  Church  of  Brou. 

At  sunrise,  from  their  dewy  lair 

Crossing  the  stream,  the  kine  are  seen 
Round  the  wall  to  stray ; 
The  churchyard  wall  that  clips  the  square 
Of  shaven  hill-sward  trim  and  green 
Where  last  year  they  lay. 
But  all  things  now  are  ordered  fair 
Round  the  Church  of  Brou. 

On  Sundays,  at  the  matin  chime, 
The  Alpine  peasants,  two  and  three. 
Climb  up  here  to  pray. 
Burghers  and  dames,  at  summer's  prime, 
Ride  out  to  church  from  Chambery, 
Dight  with  mantles  gay. 
But  else  it  is  a  lonely  time 
Round  the  Church  of  Brou. 

On  Sundays,  too,  a  priest  doth  come 
From  the  walled  town  beyond  the  pass, 
Down  the  mountain  way ; 
And  then  you  hear  the  organ's  hum. 

You  hear  the  white-robed  priest  say  mass. 
And  the  people  pray. 
But  else  the  woods  and  fields  are  dumb 
Round  the  Church  of  Brou. 

And  after  church,  when  mass  is  done, 
The  peoj)le  to  the  nave  repair 


84  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Round  the  tomb  to  stray, 
And  marvel  at  the  forms  of  stone, 

And  praise  the  chiselled  broideries  rare 

Then  they  drop  away. 
The  princely  pair  are  left  alone 
In  the  Church  of  Brou. 


HI. 


THE    TOMB. 

So  rest,  forever  rest,  O  princely  pair ! 
In  your  high  church,  mid  the  still  mountain  air, 
Where  horn  and  hound  and  vassals  never  come. 
Only  the  blessed  saints  are  smiling  dumb 
From  the  rich  painted  windows  of  the  nave 
On  aisle  and  transept  and  your  marble  grave; 
Where  thou,  young  Prince,  shalt  nevermore  arise 
From  the  fringed  mattress  where  thy  Duchess  hes, 
On  autumn  mornings,  when  the  bugle  sounds, 
And  ride  across  the  drawbridge  with  thy  hounds 
To  hunt  the  boar  in  the  crisj)  woods  till  eve. 
And  thou,  0  Princess,  shalt  no  more  receive, 
Thou  and  thy  ladies,   in  the  hall  of  state, 
The  jaded  hunters,  with  their  bloody  freight, 
Coming  benighted  to  the  castle  gate. 

So  sleep,  forever  slee|),  O  niarble  pair  ! 
And  if  ye  wake,  let  it  be  then,  when  fair 
On  the  curved  western  front  a  flood  of  liglit 
Streams  from  the  setting  sun,  and  colors  bright 


BKOU.  85 

Prophets,  transfigured  saints,  and  martyrs  brave, 

In  the  vast  western  window  of  the  nave  ; 

And  on  the  pavement  round  the  tomb  there  glints 

A  checker-work  of  glowing  sapphire  tints, 

And  amethyst,  and  rnby  ;  —  then  unclose 

Your  eyelids  on  the  stone  where  ye  repose, 

And  from  your  broidered  pillows  lift  your  heads, 

And  rise  upon  your  cold  white  marble  beds. 

And  looking  down  on  the  warm  rosy  tints 

That  checker,  at  your  feet,  the  illumined  flints. 

Say,  "  What  is  this  ?  we  are  in  bliss,  —  forgiven,  — 

Behold  the  pavement  of  the  courts  of  Heaven!"  — 

Or  let  it  be  on  autumn  nights,  when  rain 

Dotli  rustlingly  above  your  heads  complain 

On  the  smooth  leaden  roof,  and  on  the  walls 

Sliedding  her  pensive  light  at  intervals 

The  moon  tiirough  the  clere-story  windows  shines, 

And  the  wind  washes  in  the  mountain  pines. 

Tlien,  gazing  up   through  tlie  dim  pillars  high. 

The  foliaged  marble  forest  where  ye  lie, 

"  Hush,"  ye  will  say,  "  it  is  eternity. 

This  is  the  glimmering  verge  of  heaven,  and  these 

Tlie  columns  of  the  heavenly  palaces." 

And  in  the  sweeping  of  the  wind  your  ear 

The  passage  of  the  angels'  wings  will  hear. 

And  on  the  lichen-crusted  leads  above 

The  rustle  of  the  eternal  rain  of  love. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


86  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Caen, 

BURIAL  OF  WILLIAM  THE  CONQUEROR. 

AT    CAEN,    FN    NORMANDY,    1087. 

"At  the  day  appointed  for  the  king's  interment,  Prince  Henry,  his 
third  son,  the  Norman  prelates,  and  a  multitude  of  clei'gy  and  people, 
assembled  in  the  Church  of  St.  Stephen,  which  the  Conqueror  had  founded. 
The  mass  had  l)een  performed,  the  corpse  was  placed  on  the  bier,  and  the 
Bishop  of  Evreux  had  pronounced  the  panegyric  on  tlie  deceased,  when  a 
voice  from  the  crowd  exclaimed :  '  He  whom  you  have  praised  was  a  rob- 
ber. The  very  land  on  which  you  stand  is  mine.  By  violence  lie  took  it 
from  my  father;  and  in  the  name  of  God,  I  forbid  you  to  bury  liim  in  it.' 
The  speaker  was  Asceline  Fitz-Arthur,  wlio  liad  often,  but  fruitlessly, 
sought  reparation  from  the  justice  of  William.  After  some  debate,  th6 
prelates  called  him  to  them,  paid  him  sixty  sliillings  for  the  grave,  and 
promised  that  he  should  receive  the  full  value  of  his  land.  The  ceremony 
was  then  continued,  and  tlie  ])ody  of  the  king  deposited  in  a  coffin  of 
stone."  —  LiNGARD,  Vol.  II.  p.  98. 

LOWLY  upon  his  bier 
The  royal  conqueror  lay; 
Baron  and  chief  stood  near, 

Silent  in  war  array. 
Down  the  long  minster's  aisle 

Crowds  mutely  gazing  streamed; 
Altar  and  tomb  the  while 

Through  mists  of  incense  gleamed. 

And,  by  the  torches'  blaze. 

The  stately  priest  had  said 
High  words  of  power  and  praise 

To  the  glory  of  the  dead. 


CAEN.  87 

They  lowered  him,  with  the  sound 

Of  requiems,  to  repose  ; 
When  from  the  throngs  around 

A  solemn  voice  arose :  — • 

"Forbear!  forbear!"  it  cried; 

"  In  the  holiest  Name,  forbear  1 
He  hatli  conquered  regions  wide. 

But  he  shall  not  slumber  there! 
By  the  violated  hearth 

Which  made  way  for  you  proud  shrine; 
By  the  harvests  which  this  earth 

Hath  borne  for  me  and  mine ; 

"By  the  house  e'en  here  o'erthrown 

On  my  brethren's  native  spot,  — 
Hence  !  with  his  dark  renown 

Cumber  our  birthplace  not ! 
Will  my  sire's  unransomed  field. 

O'er  which  your  censers  wave. 
To  the  buried  spoiler  yield 

Soft  slumber  in  the  grave  ? 

"The  tree  before  him  fell 

Which  we  cherished  many  a  year, 
But  its  deep  root  yet  shall  swell 

And  heave  against  his  bier. 
The  land  that  I  have  tQled 

Hath  yet  its  brooding  breast 
With  my  home's  white  ashes  filled. 

And  it  shall  not  give  him  rest. 


88  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"Here  each  proud  columns'  bed 

Hath  beeu  wet  by  weeping  eyes,  — 
Hence !  and  bestow  your  dead 

Where  no  wrong  against  him  cries !  '* 
Shame  glowed  on  each  dark  face 

Of  those  proud  and  steel -girt  men, 
And  they  bought  with  gold  a  place 

Por  their  leader's  dust,  e'en  then. 

A  little  earth  for  him 

Whose  banner  flew  so  far! 
And  a  peasant's  tale  could  dim 

The  name,  a  nation's  star  ! 
One  deep  voice  thus  arose 

From  a  heart  which  wrongs  had  riven, — 
O,  who  shall  number  those 

That  were  but  heard  in  heaven  ? 

Felicia  Hemans. 


Calais. 

CALAIS. 

EDWARD  was  fired  with  wratli. 
"Bring  forth,"  he  said, 
"  The  hostages,  and  let  their  death  instruct 
Tiiis  contumacious  city." 

Forth  they  came. 
The  rope  about  their  necks,  those  patriot  men. 


CALAIS.  89 

Who  nobly  chose  an  ignominious  doom 
To  save  their  country's  blood.     Famine  and  toil 
And  the  long  siege  had  worn  them  to  the  bone ; 
Yet  from  their  eye  spoke  that  heroic  soul 
Which  scorns  the  body's  ill.     Father  and  son 
Stood  side  by  side,  and  youthful  forms  were  there. 
By  kindred  linked,  for  whom  the  sky  of  life 
Was  bright  with  love.     Yet  no  repining  sigh 
Darkened  tlieir  hour  of  fate.     Well  had  they  taxed 
The  midnight  thought,  and  nerved  the  wearied  arm. 
While  months  and  seasons  thinned  their  wasting  ranks. 
The  harvest  failed,  the  joy  of  vintage  ceased ;  — 
Vine-dresser  and  grape-gatherer  manned  the  walls. 
And  when  they  sank  with  hunger,  others  came. 
Of  cheek  more  pale,  perchance,  but  strong  at  heart. 
Yet  still  those  spectres  poured  their  arrow-flight. 
Or  hurled  tlie  deadly  stone,  while  at  the  gates 
The  conqueror  of  Cressy  sued  in  vain. 
"  Lead  them  to  die ! "  he  bade. 

In  nobler  hearts 
There  was  a  throb  of  pity  for  the  foe 
So  fallen  and  so  unblenching ;  yet  none  dared 
Meet  that  fierce  temper  with  the  word,  Forgive  ! 

Who  comes  with  hasty  step,  and  flowing  robe, 

And  hair  so  slightly  bound  ?     The  Queen  !  the  Queen ! 

An  earnest  pity  on  her  lifted  brow, 

Tears  in  her  azure  eye,  like  drops  of  light. 

What  seeks  she  with  such  fervid  eloquence? 

Life  for  the  lost !     And  ever  as  she  fears 

Her  suit  in  vain,  more  wildly  heaves  her  breast. 


90  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

In  secrecy  of  prayer,  to  save  her  lord 
From  cruelty  so  dire,  and  from  the  pangs 
Of  late  remorse.     At  first,  the  strong  resolve 
Curled  on  his  lip,  and  raised  his  haughty  head, 
While  every  firm-set  muscle  prouder  swelled 
To  iron  rigor.     Then  his  flashing  eye 
Rested  upon  her,  till  its  softened  glance 
Confessed  contagion  from  her  tenderness, 
As  with  a  manly  and  chivalrous  grace 
The  boon  he  gave. 

O  woman !  ever  seek 
A  victory  like  this  ;  with  heavenly  warmth 
Still  melt  the  icy  purpose,  still  preserve 
From  error's  path  the  heart  that  thou  dost  fold 
Close  in  thine  own  pure  love.     Yes,  ever  be 
The  advocate  of  mercy,  and  the  friend 
Of  those  whom  all  forsake ;    so  may  thy  prayer 
In  thine  adversity  be  heard  of  Him, 
Who  multiplies  to  pardon. 

Still  we  thought 
Of  thee,  Philippa,  and  thy  fervent  tone 
Of  intercession,  and  the  cry  of  joy, 
Wliich  was  its  echo  from  the  breaking  heart, 
In  many  a  mournful  home.     Of  thee  we  tliought. 
With  blessings  on  thy  goodness,  as  we  came 
All  chill  and  dripping  from  the  salt  sea  wave, 
Within  the  gates  of  Calais,  soon  to  wend 
Our  onward  course. 

The  vales  of  France  were  green. 
As  if  the  soul  of  summer  lingered  there, 
Yet  the  crisp  vine-leaf  told  an  autumn  tale. 


CALAIS.  91 

While  the  brown  wiudmills  spread  tbeir  flying  arms 

To  every  fickle  breeze.     The  singing-girl 

Awoke  her  liglit  guitar,  and  featly  danced 

To  her  own  madrigals ;    but  the  low  hut 

Of  the  poor  peasant  seemed  all  comfortless. 

And  his  harsh-featured  wife,  made  swarth  by  toils 

Unfeminine,  with  no  domestic  smile 

Cheered  her  sad  children,  plunging  their  dark  feet 

Deep  in  the  miry  soil. 

At  intervals 
Widely  disjoined,  where  clustering  roofs  arose, 
Tiie  cry  of  shrill  mendicity  was  up. 
And  at  each  window  of  our  vehicle, 
Hand,  hat,  and  basket  thrust,  and  the  wild  eye 
Of  clamorous  children,  eager  for  a  coin. 
Assailed  our  every  pause.     At  first,  the  pang 
Of  pity  moved  us,  and  we  vainly  wished 
For  wealth  to  fill  each  meagre  hand  with  gold ; 
But,  oft  besought,  suspicion  steeled  the  heart. 
And  'ueath  the  guise  of  poverty  we  deemed 
Vice  or  deception  lurked.     So  on  we  passed, 
Save  when  an  alms  some  white-haired  form  implored, 
Bowed  down  with  age,  or  some  pale,  pining  babe, 
Froze  into  silence  by  its  misery. 
Clung  to  the  sickly  mother.     On  we  passed, 
In  homely  diligence,  like  cumbrous  house, 
Tripartite  and  well  peopled,  its  lean  steeds 
Rope-harnessed  and  grotesque,  while  the  full  moon 
Silvered  our  weary  caravan,  that  wrought 
Unresting,  night  and  day,  until  the  towers 
Of  fair  St.  Denis,  where  the  garnered  dust 


92  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Of  many  a  race  of  Gallic  monarclis  sleeps, 

Gleamed  tlirougli  the  misty  morning,  and  we  gained 

The  gates  of  Paris. 

Lydla  Hunt  ley  Slgoiirney. 


FISH-WOMEN. 

ON    LANDING    AT    CALAIS. 

'rp  IS  said,  fantastic  ocean  doth  enfold 

-L     The  likeness  of  whate'er  on  land  is  seen ; 
But  if  the  Nereid  sisters  and  their  queen, 
Above  whose  heads  the  tide  so  long  hath  rolled, 
The  dames  resemble  whom  we  here  behold, 
How  fearful  were  it  down  through  opening  waves 
To  sink,  and  meet  them  in  their  fretted  caves. 
Withered,  grotesque,  immeasurably  old, 
And  shrill  and  fierce  in  accent!     Tear  it  not: 
For  they  earth's  fairest  daughters  do  excel ; 
Pure,  undecaying  benuty  is  their  lot ; 
Their  voices  into  liquid  music  swell, 
Thrilling  each  pearly  cleft  and  sparry  grot, 
The  undisturbed  abodes  where  sea-nymphs  dwell ! 

William  Wordsworth. 

CALAIS  SANDS. 

A   THOUSAND  knights  have  reined  their  steeds 
To  watch  this  line  of  sand-hills  run, 
Along  the  never  silent  Strait, 
To  Calais  glittering  in  the  sun; 


CAI.AIS.  03 

To  look  toward  Ardres'  golden  field 
Across  this  wide  aerial  plain, 
Wliicli  glows  as  it'  tlie  Middle  Age 
Were  gorgeous  upon  eartli  again, 

0  that,  to  share  this  famous  scene, 

1  saw,  upon  the  open  sand, 
Thy  lovely  presence  at  my  side, 

Thy  shawl,  thy  look,  thy  smile,  thy  hand ! 

How  exquisite  thy  voice  would  come, 
My  darling,  on  this  lonely  air ! 
How  sweetly  would  the  fresh  sea-breeze 
Shake  loose  some  lock  of  soft  brown  hair  ! 

But  now  my  glance  but  once  hatli  roved 
O'er  Calais  and  its  fauious  plain ; 
To  Euglaud's  cliffs  my  gaze  is  turned, 
O'er  the  blue  Strait  mine  eyes  I  strain. 

Thou  comest !     Yes,  the  vessel's  cloud 
Hangs  dark  upon  the  rolling  sea ! 

0  that  yon  sea-bird's  wings  were  mine. 
To  win  one  instant's  glimpse  of  thee  ! 

1  must  not  spring  to  grasp  thy  hand. 
To  woo  thy  smile,  to  seek  thine  eye ; 
But  I  may  stand  far  off,  and  gaze. 
And  watch  thee  pass  unconscious  by, 

And  spell  thy  looks,  and  guess  thy  thoughts, 
Mixed  with  the  idlers  on  the  pier.  — 


94  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

All,  might  I  always  rest  unseen, 
So  I  might  have  thee  always  near! 

To-morrow  hurry  through  tlie  fields 
Of  Flanders  to  the  storied  Rhine  ! 
To-night  those  soft-fringed  eyes  shall  close 
Beneath  one  roof,  my  queen !  with  mine. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


Camargue. 


CAM  ARGUE. 

Camargue  is  a  vast  delta,  formed  by  the  bifurcation  of  the  Rhone. 
The  island  extends  from  Aries  to  the  sea,  and  comprises  184,l-82i  acres. 
Tlie  immensity  of  its  horizon,  the  awful  silence  of  its  level  plain,  its  strange 
vegetation,  meres,  swarms  of  mosquitoes,  large  herds  of  oxen  and  wild 
horses,  amaze  tlie  traveller,  and  remind  him  of  the  pampas  of  South 
America. 

SOON  to  the  farm  came  suitor  number  two, 
A  keeper  of  wild  horses  from  Sambu, — 
Veran,  by  name.     About  his  island  home 
In  the  great  prairies,  where  the  asters  bloom, 
He  used  to  keep  a  hundred  milk-white  steeds. 
Who  nipped  the  heads  of  all  the  lofty  reeds. 

A  hundred  steeds  !     Their  long  manes  flowing  free 
As  the  foam-crested  billows  of  the  sea! 
Wavy  and  thick  and  all  unshorn  were  they; 
And  when  the  horses  on  their  headlong  way 


CAMAIIGUE. 

Plunged  all  together,  their  dishevelled  hair 
Seemed  th^  white  robes  of  creatures  of  the  air. 


I  say  it  to  the  shame  of  human  kind: 
Camargan  steeds  were  never  known  to  mind 
The  cruel  spur  more  than  the  coaxing  hand. 
Only  a  few  or  so,  1  understand, 
By  treachery  seduced,  have  halter  worn, 
And  from  their  own  salt  prairies  been  borne; 

Yet  the  day  comes  when,  with  a  vicious  start, 
Their  riders  throwing,  suddenly  they  part, 
And  twenty  leagues  of  land  unresting  scour. 
Snuffing  the  wind,  till  Vacares  once  more 
They  find,  the  salt  air  breathe,  and  joy  to  be 
In  freedom  after  ten  years'  slavery. 

For  these  wild  steeds  are  with  the  sea  at  home : 
Have  they  not  still  the  color  of  the  foam  ? 
Perchance  they  brake  from  old  King  Neptune's  car; 
For  when  the  sea  turns  dark  and  moans  afar. 
And  the  ships  part  their  cables  in  the  bay, 
The  stallions  of  Camargue  rejoicing  neigh. 

Their  sweeping  tails  like  whipcord  snapping  loudly ; 
Or  pawing  the  earth,  all,  fiercely  and  proudly, 
As  though  their  flanks  were  stung  as  with  a  rod 
By  the  sharp  trident  of  the  angry  god, 
Who  makes  the  rain  a  deluge,  and  the  ocean 
Stirs  to  its  depths  in  uttermost  commotion. 

Frederic  Mistral.     Tr.  Harriet  W.  Preston. 


96  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


PETITE  CAMARGUE. 

Petite  Camargue,  also  called  S6u\  age,  is  bounded  on  the  east  by  the 
Petit  lllioiie,  whicli  separates  it  from  Gi-aiide  Camargue,  on  the  south  by 
the  Medicerraueau,  aud  on  the  west  and  north  l)y  the  Rhone  Mort  and 
the  AigueMorte  Caual.     It  is  the  principal  resort  of  the  wild  black  oxen. 

ALSO  that  summer  came  to  Lotus  Place 
Que  from  Petite  Camargue,  called  Ourrias. 
Breaker  aud  brauder  of  wild  cattle  he; 
And  black  aud  furious  all  the  cattle  be 
Over  those  briny  pastures  wild  who  run, 
Maddened  by  flood  and  fog  and  scalding  sun. 

Alone  this  Ourrias  had  them  all  in  charge 
Summer  and  winter,  where  they  roamed  at  large. 
And  so,  among  the  cattle  born  and  grown. 
Their  build,  their  cruel  heart,  became  his  own ; 
His  the  wild  eye,  dark  color,  dogged  look. 
How  often,  throwing  off  his  coat,  he  took 


His  cudgel, — savage  Aveaner  ! — never  blenching. 
And  first  the  young  calves  from  the  udders  wrenching, 
Upon  the  wrathful  mother  fell  so  madly 
That  cudgel  after  cudgel  brake  he  gladly, 
Till  she,  by  his  brute  fury  mastered. 
Wild-eyed  and  lowing  to  the  pine-copse  fled! 

Oft  in  the  branding  at  Camargue  had  he 

Oxen  and  heifers,  two-year-olds  and  three, 

Seized  by  the  horns  and  stretched  upon  the  ground. 


CAM  ARGUE.  97 

His  forehead  bare  the  scar  of  an  old  wound 
Fiery  and  forked  like  lightning.  It  was  said 
Tliat  once  the  green  plain  with  his  blood  was  red. 

On  a  great  branding-day  befell  this  thing: 

To  aid  the  mighty  herd  in  mustering, 

Li  Santo,  Agui  Morto,  Albaron, 

And  Faraman  a  hundred  horsemen  strong 

Had  sent  into  the  desert.     And  the  herd 

Roused  from  its  briny  lairs,  and,  forward  spurred 

By  tridents  of  the  branders  close  behind, 

Fell  on  the  land  like  a  destroying  wind. 

Heifers  and  bulls  in  headlong  gallop  borne 

Plunged,  crushing  centaury  and  salicorne ; 

And  at  the  branding-booth  at  last  they  mustered. 

Just  where  a  crowd  three  hundred  strong  had  clustered. 

A  moment,  as  if  scared,  the  beasts  were  still. 
Then,  wlien  the  cruel  spur  once  more  they  feel, 
They  start  afresli,  into  a  run  they  break. 
And  thrice  the  circuit  of  the  arena  make ; 
As  marterns  fly  a  dog,  or  hawks  afar 
By  eagles  in  the  Luberon  hunted  are. 

Then  Ourrias  —  what  ne'er  was  done  before  — 
Leaped  from  his  horse  beside  the  circus-door 
Amid  the  crowd.     The  cattle  start  again. 
All  saving  five  young  bulls,  and  scour  the  plain; 
But  these,  with  flaming  eyes  and  horns  defying 
Heaven  itself,  are  through  the  arena  flying. 


98  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  he  pursues  them.     As  a  mighty  wind 

Drives  on  the  clouds,  he  goads  them  from  behind. 

And  presently  outstrips  them  in  the  race; 

Then  thumps  them  with  the  cruel  goad  he  sways. 

Dances  before  them  as  infuriate. 

And  lets  them  feel  his  own  fists'  heavy  weight. 

The  people  clap  and  shout,  while  Ourrias 

White  with  Olympic  dust  encountered  has 

One  bull,  and  seized  liim  by  the  horns  at  length ; 

And  now  't  is  head  to  muzzle,  strength  for  strength. 

The  monster  strains  his  prisoned  horns  to  free 

Until  he  bleeds,  and  bellows  horribly. 

But  vain  his  fury,  useless  all  his  trouble! 
The  neathei-d  had  the  art  to  turn  and  double 
And  force  tlie  huge  head  with  )iis  shoulder  round. 
And  shove  it  roughly  back,  till  on  the  ground 
Christian  and  beast  together  rolled,  and  made 
A  formless  l)eap  like  some  liuge  barricade. 

The  tamarisks  are  shaken  by  the  cry 

Of  "  Brave  Ourrias  !     That  's  done  valiantly  !  " 

Wliile  five  stout  youths  the  bull  pin  to  the  sward; 

Aud  Ourrias,  his  triumph  to  record. 

Seizes  the  red-hot  iron  with  eager  hand, 

The  vanquished  monster  on  the  hip  to  brand. 

Then  couie  a  troop  of  girls  on  milk-white  ponies,  — 
Arlesians,  —  flushed  and  panting  every  one  is. 
As  o'er  the  arena  at  full  gaUop  borne 


CAMAllGUE.  ^9 

They  offer  him  a  noble  drinking-horn 
Brimful  of  wine;  tlien  turn  and  disappear, 
Each  followed  by  her  faithful  cavalier. 

Tiie  hero  heeds  them  not.     His  mind  is  set 
On  the  four  monsters  to  be  branded  yet : 
The  mower  toils  the  harder  for  the  grass 
He  sees  unmown.     And  so  this  Ourrias 
Fought  the  more  savagely  as  his  foes  warmed, 
And  conquered  in  the  end,  —  but  not  unharmed. 

White-spotted,  and  with  horns  magnificent. 

The  fourth  beast  grazed  the  green  in  all  content. 

"  Now,  man,  enough  !  "  in  vain  the  neatlierds  shouted ; 

Couched  is  the  trident  and  the  caution  flouted; 

With  perspiration  streaming,  bosom  bare, 

Ourrias  the  spotted  bull  charged  then  and  there ! 

He  meets  his  enemy,  a  blow  delivers 

Full  in  the  face;  but  ah!  the  trident  shivers. 

The  beast  becomes  a  demon  with  tlie  wound: 

The  brander  grasps  liis  liorns,  is  whirled  around,  — 

They  start  togetlier,  and  are  borne  amain, 

Crusliing  the  salicornes  along  the  plain. 

Tlie  mounted  herdsmen,  on  their  long  goads  leaning. 

Regard  the  mortal  fray ;  for  each  is  meaning 

Dire  vengeance  now.     The  man  the  brute  would  crush  ; 

The  brute  bears  off  the  man  with  furious  rush, 
The  while  with  heavy,  frothy  tongue  he  clears 
The  blood  that  to  his  hanging  lip  adheres. 


100  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  brute  prevailed.     Tlie  man  fell  dazed,  and  lay 
Like  a  vile  rakeful  in  the  monster's  way. 
"  Sliam  dead !  "  went  up  a  cry  of  agony. 
Vain  words !     The  beast  his  victim  lifted  high 
On  cruel  horns  and  savage  head  inclined, 
And  flung  him  six  and  forty  feet  behind! 

Once  more  a  deafening  outcry  filled  the  place 
And  shook  the  tamarisks.     But  Ourrias 
Fell  prone  to  earth,  and  ever  after  wore  he 
Tlie  ugly  scar  that  marred  his  brow  so  sorely. 
Now,  mounted  on  his  mare,  he  paces  slow 
With  goad  erect  to  seek  Mireio. 

Frederic  Mistral.     Tr.  Harriet  W.  Preston. 


Cannes. 

RACHEL. 

UNTO  a  lonely  villn,  in  a  dell 
Above  the  fragrant,  warm  Provencal  shore, 
The  dying  Rachel  in  a  chair  they  bore 
Up  the  steep  piue-plumed  paths  of  the  Estrelle, 
And  laid  her  in  a  stately  room,  where  fell 
The  sliadow  of  a  marble  Muse  of  yore,  — 
The  rose-crowned  queen  of  legendary  lore, 
Polymnia,  —  full  on  her  death-bed.     'Twas  well! 
The  fret  and  misery  of  our  northern  towns, 
In  this,  her  life's  last  day,  our  poor,  our  [)ain, 
Our  jangle  of  false  wits,  our  climate's  frowns. 


CANNES.  101 

Do  for  this  radiant  Greek-souled  artist  cease ; 

Sole  object  of  lier  dying  eyes  remain 

Tlie  beauty  and  the  glorious  art  of  Greece. 

Matthew  Arnold, 

NEAR  CANNES. 

/  TJETIE  little  birds  fly  low  and  fold 
Al  Their  wings  to  stillness  in  the  shade 
Of  lines  of  willow-trees,  that  hold 
Sweet  secrets  in  them  unbetrayed ; 

Though  sometimes  in  a  dream  of  sound, 

Half  music  and  half  sun,  we  hear 
Ripples  of  water  touch  the  ground. 

And  smell  the  lilies  bending  near. 

Upon  the  fields  the  wanton  sun 
Lies  with  his  yellow  locks  between 

The  poppy  blooms  that  one  by  one 

Steal  blushing  to  him  through  the  green. 

And  tenderest  forget-me-nots 

That  e'er  a  lover  honored  yet 
With  glance  made  sweet  by  sweetest  thoughts 

Are  softly  in  the  grasses  set. 

And  yonder  by  the  gleaming  road 

Whose  white  feet  pass  the  meadows  by, 

Mute  in  an  awe-struck  dream  of  God, 
The  poplars  look  up  to  the  sky. 

Cora  Keanedii  Altken. 


102  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Carcassonne, 

CARCASSONNE. 

HOW  old  I  am  !     I  'm  eighty  years ! 
I  've  worked  both  hard  and  long. 
Yet  patient  as  my  life  has  been, 
One  dearest  sight  I  have  not  seen,  — 
It  almost  seems  a  wrong ; 
A  dream  I  had  when  life  was  new. 
Alas,  our  dreams!  they  come  not  true: 
I  thought  to  see  fair  Carcassonne,  — 
That  lovely  city,  —  Carcassonne  ! 

"  One  sees  it  dimly  from  the  height 
Beyond  the  mountains  blue, 
Fain  would  I  walk  five  weary  leagues,  — 
I  do  not  mind  the  road's  fatigues, — 
Through  morn  and  evening's  dew. 
But  bitter  frosts  would  fall  at  night, 
And  on  tlie  grapes,  —  that  yellow  blight ! 
I  could  not  go  to  Carcassonne, 
I  never  went  to  Carcassonne. 

"They  say  it  is  as  gay  all  times 
As  holidays  at  home  ! 
Tlie  gentles  ride  in  gay  attire. 
And  in  the  sun  each  gilded  spire 
Shoots  up  like  those  of  Rome ! 


CAllCASSONE.  103 

The  Bishop  the  procession  leads, 
The  generals  curb  their  prancing  steeds. 
Alas !  I  know  not  Carcassonne,  — 
Alas !  I  saw  not  Carcassonne  ! 

"  Our  Vicar  's  right  I  he  preaches  loud. 

And  bids  us  to  beware  ; 

He  says,  '  O,  guard  the  weakest  part, 

And  most  the  traitor  in  the  heart 

Against  Ambition's  snare  ! ' 

Perhaps  in  autumn  I  can  find 

Two  sunny  days  with  gentle  wind, 

I  then  could  go  to  Carcassonne, 

I  still  could  go  to  Carcassonne ! 

"  My  God  and  Father !  pardon  me 

If  this  my  wish  offends ! 

One  sees  some  hop3,  more  high  than  he, 

In  age,  as  in  his  infancy, 

To  which  his  heart  ascends  ! 

My  wife,  my  son,  have  seen  Narboune, 

My  grandson  went  to  Perpignan ; 

But  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne, — 

But  I  have  not  seen  Carcassonne." 

Tlius  sighed  a  peasant  bent  with  age, 
Half  dreaming  in  his  chair ; 
I  said,  "  My  friend,  come  go  with  me 
To-morrow;  then  thine  eyes  shall  see 
Those  streets  that  seem  so  fair." 
That  night  there  came  for  passing  soul 


104  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  church-bell's  low  and  solemn  toll. 
He  never  saw  gay  Carcassonne. 
Who  has  not  known  a  Carcassonne? 

Gustave  Naclaud.     Tr.  M.  E.  W.  Sherwood. 


Carennac. 

THE  LITTLE  ABBEY  OF  CARENNAC. 

HERE,  in  God's  house  of  the  open  dome, 
Vigil  is  kept  by  the  pilgrim-breeze ; 
Here,  from  ils  sun-illumined  tome. 

Labor  intones  its  litanies. 
For  disciplaie,  here  is  the  chastening  rain ; 

For  burden,  the  fruit  of  the  bending  tree; 
The  thorn  of  the  rose  for  a  pleasant  pain; 

And  palm  for  a  costless  victory. 
0,  if  my  vow  but  b')und  to  these, 

'T  were  long  ere  this  laggard  step  grew  slack. 

0  that  the  wilful  world  would  please 

To  leave  me  my  flocks,  my  birds  and  bees, 
My  ivied  stall  and  my  hours  of  ease, 

And  my  little  abbey  of  Carennac  ! 

Far  from  the  city's  guarded  gate, 

Free  from  the  crush  of  ils  silken  crowds, 

1  see  the  sun  in  his  purple  state. 

And  tlie  changing  face  of  the  courtier-clouds. 


CARENNAC.  105 

My  thoughts  are  mine  when  my  task  is  sped; 

My  head  aches  not,  and  my  heart  is  full; 
And  the  laurels  that  cumber  my  careless  tread 

Are  the  only  ones  that  I  choose  to  pull. 
Away  from  my  friends,  I  love  them  best; 

Away  from  my  books,  no  lore  I  lack  : 
Here,  no  longer  a  flying  guest. 
With  wavering  foot  that  finds  no  rest. 
Truth  comes  home  to  this  lonely  breast 

In  this  little  abbey  of  Carennac. 

Thus,  lialf  hid  from  the  smile  of  Spring 

Under  the  bough  of  a  blossomed  tree. 
My  single  wish  is  the  grace  to  sing 

The  praise  of  a  spot  where  a  bard  should  be. 
Sounding  clear  as  the  forest  call, 

Wakenhig  man  in  the  monarch's  breast. 
Many-voiced  as  the  wafers  fall,  — 

Speaking  to  every  soul's  unrest. 
My  song  should  seize  with  a  minstrel  sway 

Yon  green  twin-isles  and  their  busy  bac, 
The  hamlet  white  and  the  convent  gray. 
And  tlie  lodge  for  the  wanderer  on  his  way, 
And  thus  to  my  France  in  my  little  lay 

Give  my  little  abbey  of  Carennac. 

To  journey  again  o'er  the  hard  highway ; 

To  enter  a  garrulous,  troublous  train; 
Uncalled  to  come,  and  unbid  obey  : 

To  feign  it  pleasure,  and  feel  it  pain. 
To  float,  —  a  straw  on  an  idle  stream  ; 

To  glitter,  —  a  mote  by  the  sunbeam  sought ; 


106  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

To  walk,  —  a  shade  in  a  waking  dream  ; 

To  strive  for  nothings  where  all  is  naught. 
An  iron  tongue  to  summon  away, 

And  a  rope  of  sand  to  hold  me  back, 
Are  the  call  to  go,  and  the  will  to  stay,  — 

Clamorous  Duty  and  still  Delay : 

0  gilded  gloom  !  0  green  and  gay 

Of  my  little  abbey  of  Carennac  ! 

Fields  that  teem  with  the  fruits  of  peace, 

Let  your  reapers  reap  and  your  binders  bind! 

1  cannot  flee  for  a  fond  caprice 

Yon  stony  spot  to  my  hand  assigned. 
To  me  are  numbered  the  seeds  that  grow; 

Not  mine  the  loss  of  the  perished  grain. 
If  working  I  watch  for  the  time  to  sow. 

And  waiting  pray  for  the  sun  and  rain. 
My  day  to  God  and  the  king  I  lend: 

The  wish  of  my  heart  will  bring  me  back 
A  few  last,  lightsome  hours  to  spend. 
And  to  pass  with  my  lifelong  looked-for  friend, 
Through  a  quiet  night  and  a  perfect  end, 

Prom  my  little  abbey  of  Carennac. 

Frangois  Fenelon,     Tr.  Anon. 


CARNAC.  107 


Carnac. 


STANZAS  COMPOSED  AT  CARNAC. 

'vy      TIAH  ou  its  rocky  knoll  descried 

■^       J-    Saint  Michael's  chapel  cuts  the  sky. 

I  climbed  ;  —  beneath  me,  bright  and  wide, 

Lay  the  lone  coast  of  Brittany. 

Bright  in  the  sunset,  weird  and  still. 
It  lay  beside  the  Atlantic  wave. 
As  if  the  wizard  Merlin's  will 
Yet  charmed  it  from  his  forest  grave. 

Behind  me  on  their  grassy  sweep, 
Bearded  with  lichen,  scrawled  and  gray, 
The  giant  stones  of  Carnac  sleep. 
In  the  mild  evening  of  the  May. 

No  priestly  stern  procession  now 

Streams  through  their  rows  of  pillars  old; 

No  victims  bleed,  no  Druids  bow ; 

Sheep  make  the  furze-grown  aisles  their  fold. 

From  bush  to  bush  the  cuckoo  flies, 
The  orchis  red  gleams  everywhere; 
Gold  broom  with  furze  in  blossom  vies. 
The  bluebells  perfume  all  the  air. 

And  o'er  the  glistening,  lonely  land 
Rise  up,  all  round,  the  Christian  spires. 


108  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  churcli  of  Carnac,  by  the  strand. 
Catches  the  westering  sun's  last  fires. 

And  there  across  the  watery  way, 
See,  low  above  the  tide  at  flood. 
The  sickle-sweep  of  Quiberou  bay 
Whose  beach  once  ran  with  loyal  blood! 

And  beyond  that,  the  Atlantic  wide !  — 
All  round,  no  soul,  no  boat,  no  hail ! 
But,  on  the  horizon's  verge  descried. 
Hangs,  touched  with  light,  one  snowy  sail ! 

Ah,  where  is  lie,  who  should  have  come 
Where  that  far  sail  is  passiug  now. 
Past  the  Loire's  mouth,  and  by  the  foam 
Of  Finistere's  unquiet  brow, 

Home,  round  into  tlie  English  wave  ?  — 
He  tarries  where  the  Rock  of  Spain 
Mediterranean  waters  lave ; 
He  enters  not  the  Atlantic  main. 

O,  could  he  once  have  reached  this  air 
Freshened  by  plunging  tides,  by  showers  ! 
Have  felt  this  breath  he  loved,  of  fair 
Cool  Northern  fields  and  grass  and  flowers  ! 

He  longed  for  it,  —  pressed  on  !  —  In  vain. 
At  the  Straits  failed  that  spirit  brave. 
The  South  was  parent  of  his  pain, 
The  Soutii  is  mistress  of  his  grave. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


A^ 


CAST^L    CUILL^.  109 


Castel-CuiUk 

CASTEL-CUILLE. 

T  the  foot  of  the  mountain  height 

Where  is  perched  Castel-Cuille, 

When  the  apple,  the  plum,  and  the  almond  tree 

In  the  plain  below  were  growing  white. 

This  is  the  song  one  might  perceive 

On  a  Wednesday  morn  of  Saint  Joseph's  Eve : 

"  The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home! 

Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay. 

So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day ! " 

This  old  Te  Deum,  rustic  rites  attending, 
Seemed  from  the  clouds  descending; 
When  lo !  a  merry  company 
Of  rosy  village  girls,  clean  as  the  eye. 

Each  one  with  her  attendant  swain. 
Came  to  the  cliff,  all  singing  the  same  strain; 
Resembling  there,  so  near  unto  the  sky, 
Rejoicing  angels,  that  kind  Heaven  has  sent 
For  their  delight  and  our  encouragement. 
Together  blending, 
And  soon  descending 
The  narrow  sweep 
Of  the  hillside  steep. 


110  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

They  wind  aslant 
Towards  Saint  Amant, 
Through  leafy  alleys 
Of  verdurous  valleys 
With  merry  sallies 
Singing  their  chant : 

"  The  roads  should  blossom,  the  roads  should  bloom, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  leave  her  home ! 
Should  blossom  and  bloom  with  garlands  gay, 
So  fair  a  bride  shall  pass  to-day  !  " 

Jacques  Jasmin.     Tr.  Henry  Wadsworih  Longfellow. 


Caudebec. 

WRITTEN  AT  CAUDEBEC  IN  NORMANDY. 

"TTTHEN  life  is  crazy  in  my  limbs, 
»  '      And  hope  is  gone  astray, 
And  in  my  soul's  December  fade 

The  love-thoughts  of  its  May, 
One  spot  of  earth  is  left  to  me 

Will  warm  my  heart  again  : 
'T  is  Caudebec  and  Mailleraie 

On  the  pleasant  banks  of  Seine. 


CAUTERETZ.  Ill 

The  dark  wood's  crownal  on  the  hill, 

The  river  curving  bright. 
The  graceful  barks  that  rest  or  play, 

Pure  creatures  of  delight,  — 
0,  these  are  shows  by  nature  given 

To  warm  old  hearts  again. 
At  Caudebec  and  Mailleraie 

On  the  pleasant  banks  of  Seine. 

The  Tuscan's  land,  I  loved  it  well. 

And  the  Switzer's  clime  of  snow, 
And  many  a  bliss  me  there  befell 

I  nevermore  can  know  : 
But  for  q\iiet  joy  of  nature's  own 

To  warm  the  heart  again. 
Give  me  Caudebec  and  Mailleraie 

On  the  pleasant  banks  of  Seine. 

Arthur  Henry  Hallam. 


Cauteretz. 

IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  CAUTERETZ. 

ALL  along  the  valley,  stream  that  flashest  white, 
Deepening    thy   voice   with    the   deepening   of    the 
night, 
All  along  the  valley,  where  thy  waters  flow. 


112  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

I  walked  with  one  I  loved  two  and  thirty  years  ago. 

All  along  the  valley  while  I  walked  to-day, 

The  two  and  thirty  years  were  a  mist  that  rolls  away ; 

For  all  along  the  valley,  down  thy  rocky  bed 

Thy  living  voice  to  me  was  as  the  voice  of  the  dead. 

And  all  along  the  valley,  by  rock  and  cave  and  tree, 

The  voice  of  the  dead  was  a  living  voice  to  me. 

Alfred  Tennyson. 


Cette. 

A  SOUTHERN  NIGHT. 

THE  sandy  spits,  the  shore-locked  lakes, 
Melt  into  open,  moonlit  sea  ; 
The  soft  Mediterranean  breaks 
At  my  feet,  free. 

Dotting  the  fields  of  corn  and  vine, 

Like  ghosts  and  huge,  gnarled  olives  stand; 
Behind,  that  lovely  mountain-line ' 
While  by  the  strand 

Cette,  with  its  glistening  houses  white, 
Curves  with  the  curving  beach  away 
To  where  the  lighthouse  beacons  bright 
Far  in  the  bay. 

Ah,  such  a  night,  so  soft,  so  lone, 
So  moonlit,  saw  me  once  of  yore 


CETTE.  113 

Wander  unquiet,  and  mj  own 
Vext  heart  deplore  ! 

But  now  that  trouble  is  forgot; 

Thy  memory,  thy  pain,  to-night, 
My  brother!  and  thine  early  lot, 
Possess  me  quite. 

The  murmur  of  this  Midland  deep 

Is  heard  to-night  around  thy  grave 
There  where  Gibraltar's  cannoned  steep 
O'er  frowns  the  wave. 

For  there,  with  bodily  anguish  keen. 
With  Indian  heats  at  last  fordone. 
With  public  toil  and  private  teen, 
Thou  sank'st,  alone. 

Slow  to  a  stop,  at  morning  gray, 

I  see  the  smoke-crowned  vessel  come ; 
Slow  round  her  paddles  dies  away 
The  seething  foam. 

A  boat  is  lowered  from  her  side  ; 

Ah,  gently  place  him  on  the  bench  ! 
That  spirit  —  if  all  have  not  yet  died  — 
A  breath  might  quench. 

Is  this  the  eye,  the  footstep  fast, 

The  mien  of  youth  we  used  to  see. 
Poor,  gallant  boy  !  —  for  such  thou  wast. 
Still  art,  to  me. 


114  POEMS    OF    PLAGES. 

The  limbs  their  wonted  tasks  refuse, 

The  eyes  are  glazed,  thou  canst  not  speak; 
And  whiter  than  thy  white  burnous 
That  wasted  cheek ! 

Enough!     The  boat,  with  quiet  shock, 

Unto  its  haven  coming  nigh. 
Touches,  and  on  Gibraltar's  rock 
Lands  thee,  to  die. 
***** 

Matthew  Arnold. 


Chartres. 

CHARTRES. 

ELUDING  these,  I  loitered  through  the  town. 
With  hope  to  take  my  minster  unawares 
In  its  grave  solitude  of  memory. 
A  pretty  burgh,  and  such  as  Eancy  loves 
For  bygone  grandeurs,  faintly  rumorous  now 
Upon  the  mind's  horizon,  as  of  storm 
Brooding  its  dreamy  thunders  far  aloof, 
That  mingle  with  our  mood,  but  not  disturb. 
Its  once  grim  bulwarks,  tamed  to  lovers'  walks. 
Look  down  unwatchful  on  the  sliding  Eure, 
Whose  listless  leisure  suits  the  quiet  place. 
Lisping  among  his  shallows  homelike  sounds 
At  Concord  and  by  Bankside  heard  before. 


CHARTRES.  115 

Cliance  led  me  to  a  public  pleasure-ground, 

Where  I  grew  kindly  with  the  merry  groups, 

And  blessed  the  Frenchman  for  his  simple  art 

Of  being  domestic  in  the  light  of  day. 

His  language  has  no  word,  we  growl,  for  Home; 

But  he  can  find  a  fireside  in  the  sun. 

Play  with  his  child,  make  love,  and  sliriek  his  mind. 

By  throngs  of  strangers  undisprivacied. 

He  makes  his  life  a  public  gallery. 

Nor  feels  himself  till  what  he  feels  comes  back 

In  manifold  reflection  from  without; 

While  we,  each  pore  alert  with  consciousness. 

Hide  our  best  selves  as  we  had  stolen  them, 

And  each  bystander  a  detective  were, 

Keen-eyed  for  every  chink  of  undisguise. 

So,  musing  o'er  the  problem  which  was  best, — 

A  life  wide-windowed,  shining  all  abroad. 

Or  curtains  drawn  to  shield   from  sight  profane 

The  rites  we  pay  to  the  mysterious  I, — ■ 

With  outward  senses  furloughed  and  head  bowed 

1  followed  some  fine  instinct  in  my  feet. 

Till,  to  unbend  me  from  the  loom  of  thought. 

Looking  up  suddenly,  I  found  mine  eyes 

Confronted  with  the  minster's  vast  repose. 

Silent  and  gray  as  forest-leaguered  cliff 

Left  inland  by  the  ocean's  slow  retreat, 

That  hears  afar  the  breeze-borne  rote  and  longs. 

Remembering  shocks  of  surf  that  clomb  and  fell. 

Spume-sliding  down  the  baffled  decuman. 

It  rose  before  me,  patiently  remote 


116  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Erom  the  great  tides  of  life  it  breasted  once. 

Hearing  the  noise  of  men  as  in  a  dream. 

I  stood  before  the  triple  northern  port, 

Where  dedicated  shapes  of  saints  and  kings, 

Stern  faces  bleared  with  immemorial  watch, 

Looked  down  benignly  grave  and  seemed  to  say, 

"Ye  come  and  go  incessant;    we  remain 

Safe  in  the  hallowed  quiets  of  the  past; 

Be  reverent,  ye  who  flit  and  are  forgot. 

Of  faith  so  nobly  realized  as  this." 

I  seem  to  have  heard  it  said  by  learned  folk 

Who  drench  you  with  aesthetics  till  you  feel 

As  if  all  beauty  were  a  ghastly  bore, 

The  faucet  to  let  loose  a  wash  of  words, 

^Tliat  Gothic  is  not  Grecian,  therefore  worse ; 

But,  being  convinced  by  much  experiment 

How  little  inventiveness  there  is  in  man. 

Grave  copier  of  copies,  I  give  tiianks 

For  a  new  relish,  careless  to  inquire 

My  pleasure's  i)edigree,  if  so  it  please. 

Nobly,  I  mean,  nor  renegade  to  art. 

The  Grecian  gluts  me  with  its  perfectness, 

Unanswerable  as  Euclid,  self-contained, 

The  one  thing  finished  in  this  hasty  world, 

Forever  finished,  though  the  barbarous  pit, 

Fanatical  on  hearsay,  stamp  and  shout 

As  if  a  miracle  could  be  encored. 

But  ah  !   this  other,  this  that  never  ends, 

Still  climbing,  luring  fancy  still  to  climb. 

As  full  of  morals  half  divined  as  life, 

Graceful,  grotesque,  with  ever  new  surprise 


CHARTRES.  117 

Of  hazardous  caprices  sure  to  please. 
Heavy  as  nightmare,  airy-light  as  fern, 
Imagiuatiou's  very  self  in  stone  ! 
With  one  long  sigh  of  infinite  release 
From  pedantries  past,  present,  or  to  come, 
I  looked,  and  owned  myself  a  happy  Goth. 
Your  blood  is  mine,  ye  architects  of  dream. 
Builders  of  aspiration  incomplete, 
So  more  consummate,  souls  self-confident, 
Who  felt  your  own  thought  worthy  of  record 
la  monumental  pomp  !     No  Grecian  drop 
Rebukes  these  veins  that  leap  with  kindred  thrill, 
After  long  exile,  to  the  mother-tongue. 

Ovid  in  Pontus,  puling  for  his  Rome 

Of  men  invirile  and  disnatured  dames 

Tiiat  poison  sucked  from  the  Attic  bloom  decayed. 

Shrank  with  a  shudder  from  the  blue-eyed  race 

Whose  force  rough-handed  should  renew  the  world, 

And  from  the  dregs  of  Romulus  express 

Such  wine  as  Dante  poured,  or  he  who  blew 

Roland's  vain  blast,  or  sang  the  Campeador 

In  verse  that  clanks  like  armor  in  the  charge,  — 

Homeric  juice,  if  brimmed  in  Odin's  horn. 

And  they  could  build,  if  not  the  columned  fane 

That  from  the  heiglit  gleamed  seaward  many-hued. 

Something  more  friendly  witii  their  ruder  skies: 

The  gray  spire,  molten  now  in  driving  mist. 

Now  lulled  with  the  incommunicable  blue; 

The  carvings  touched  to  meanings  new  with  snow, 

Or  commented  with  fleeting  grace  of  shade  ; 


118  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  statues,  motley  as  man's  memory, 

Partial  as  that,  so  mixed  of  true  and  false. 

History  and  legend  meeting  with  a  kiss 

Across  this  bound-mark  where  their  realms  confine; 

The  painted  windows,  freaking  gloom  with  glow, 

Dusking  the  sunshine  which  they  seem  to  cheer. 

Meet  symbol  of  the  senses  and  the  soul ; 

And  the  whole  pile,  grim  with  the  Northman's  thought 

Of  life  and  death,  and  doom,  life's  equal  fee,  — 

These  were  before  me  :    and  I  gazed  abashed, 

Child  of  an  age  that  lectures,  not  creates. 

Plastering  our  swallow-nests  on  the  awful  Past, 

And  twittering  round  the  work  of  larger  men. 

As  we  had  builded  what  we  but  deface. 

Far  up  the  great  bells  wallowed  in  delight. 

Tossing  their  clangors  o'er  the  heedless  town. 

To  call  the  worshippers  who  never  came. 

Or  women  mostly,  in  loath  twos  and  threes. 

I  entered,  reverent  of  whatever  shrine 

Guards  piety  and  solace  for  my  kind 

Or  gives  the  soul  a  mouient's  truce  of  God, 

And  shared  decorous  in  the  ancient  rite 

My  sterner  fathers  held  idolatrous. 

The  service  over,  I  was  tranced  in  thought : 

Solemn  the  deepening  vaults,  and  most  to  me, 

Presli  from  the  fragile  realm  of  deal  and  paint, 

Or  brick  mock-pious  with  a  marble  front; 

Solemn  the  lift  of  high-embowered  roof, 

The  clustered  stems  that  spread  m  boughs  disleaved. 

Through  which  the  organ  blew  a  dream  of  storm, — 

Though  not  more  potent  to  sublime  with  awe 


CHARTRES.  119 

And  shut  the  heart  up  in  tranquillity. 

Than  aisles  to  me  familiar  that  o'erarch 

The  conscious  silences  of  brooding  woods, 

Centurial  shadows,  cloisters  of  the  elk  : 

Yet  here  was  sense  of  undefined  regret, 

Irreparable  loss,  uncertain  what : 

Was  all  this  grandeur  but  anachronism, — 

A  shell  divorced  of  its  informing  life, 

Where  the  priest  housed  him  like  a  hermit-crab. 

An  alien  to  that  faith  of  elder  days 

That  gathered  round  it  this  fair  shape  of  stone? 

Is  old  Religion  but  a  spectre  now, 

Haunting  the  solitude  of  darkened  minds. 

Mocked  out  of  memory  by  the  sceptic  day? 

Is  there  no  comer  safe  from  peeping  Doubt, 

Since  Gutenberg  made  thought  cosmopolite 

And  stretched  electric  threads  from  mind  to  mind  ? 

Nay,  did  Faith  build  this  wonder  ?   or  did  Fear, 

(Blockish  or  metaphysic,  matters  not), 

That  makes  a  fetish  and  misnames  it  God 

Contrive  this  coop  to  shut  its  tyrant  in. 

Appeased  with  playthings,  that  he  might  not  harm? 

***** 
I  walked  forth  saddened  ;    for  all  thought  is  sad, 
And  leaves  a  bitterish  savor  in  the  brain. 
Tonic,  it  may  be,  not  delectable, 
And  turned,  reluctant,  for  a  parting  look 
At  those  old  weather-pitted  images 
Of  bygone  struggle,  now  so  sternly  calm. 
About  their  shoulders  sparrows  had  built  nests, 
And  fluttered,  chirping,  from  gray  perch  to  perch, 


120  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Now  on  a  mitre  poising,  now  a  crown, 
Irreverently  liappy.     Wliile  I  thought 
How  confident  they  were,  what  careless  hearts 
Flew  on  those  lightsome  wings  and  shared  the  sun, 
A  larger  shadow  crossed  ;    and  looking  up, 
I  saw  where,  nesting  in  the  hoary  towers, 
The  sparrow-hawk  slid  forth  on  noiseless  air. 
With  sidelong  head  that  watched  the  joy  below, 
Grim  Norman  baron  o'er  this  clan  of  Kelts. 

James  Russell  Lowell. 


Chateau  d'lf, 

THE  CHATEAU  D'IF. 

I  LAY  upon  a  dungeon  floor. 
On  my  damp  and  scanty  bed; 
And  many  a  wretch  had  lain  there  before, 
For  the  walls  were  scrawled  and  scribbled 

On  high  above  my  head. 
There  were  rude  initials,  strangely  blent. 
The  pastime  of  imprisonment  ; 
There  were  lioly  signs  of  faith  and  trust, 
Sketched  with  the  foul  corroding  rust 

Of  some  iron  instrument ; 
There  were  ribald  couplets,  deeply  writ, 
Where  coarseness  marred  the  effect  of  wit. 

And  negatived  the  intent ; 


CHATKAL'    d'iP.  121 

There  were  outlines,  wjiicli  appeared  to  trace 
The  features  of  some  cherished  face, 

The  work  of  time  and  care, 
Begun,  perhaps,  when  hope  was  high, 
In  the  first  niontlis  of  captivity, 

But  finished  in  despair  ! 
And  all  this  had  been  wrought  by  hands 
Fettered,  like  mine,  in  iron  bands  ; 
The  task,  perchance,  of  many  years. 
Produced  mid  misery  and  tears  ; 
The  pastime  which  had  tried  its  power 
To  cheat  pale  Sorrow  of  an  hour. 

And,  still  more  sad !  there  was  a  row 

Of  notches  in  the  cell. 
Which  seemed  to  have  been  made  to  show 
How  many  days  could  come  and  go 

Mid  fate  so  terrible ! 
Alas !  it  was  a  weary  line. 
At  once  a  symbol  and  a  sign. 

To  those  who  followed  there  ;  — 
Weeks,  months,  and  years  were  counted  o'er. 
And  set  apart,  a  saddening  store 

Of  anguish  and  despair ! 

1  tried  to  guess  what  hand  had  wrought 
Tiiese  promptings  to  soul-maddening  thought ; 
I  tried  to  picture  forth  the  gaze 

Of  the  stern  and  steadfast  eye. 
Which  numbered  there  the  noted  days 

Of  a  dread  captivity  ! 


122  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

At  first  each  notch  was  straight  and  long; 
Tlie  captive's  nerves  were  firm  and  strong, 
Or  thus  the  line  could  not  liave  gone 
So  deeply  through  the  jagged  stone  ; 
Long  wore  the  marks  this  trace  of  force, 

But  soon  they  ceased  to  be 
So  firm  and  even  in  their  course. 

And  I  almost  seemed  to  see 
The  tiirobbings  of  the  unsteady  hand 
Which  shook  within  its  iron  band,  — 
The  bounding  pulse  that  beat,  and  spurned 
The  fetter  beneath  which  it  burned, 

And  fevered  to  be  free ! 

This  was  the  first  sad  change  ;  but  more 

Upon  the  next  I  wept : 
He  who  once  smote  even  to  the  core 
Of  the  rude  stone,  which  darkly  bore 

The  record  that  he  kept, 
Now  left  a  lighter  trace  of  woe. 
As  if  his  strengtii  were  waning  low. 
Faint,  and  more  faintly,  every  line 
Bore  proof  of  manliood's  swift  decline, 

Mid  famine,  grief,  and  thrall. 
At  last  there  was  one  notch,  so  light 
It  scarcely  had  been  finished  quite,  — 
Life's  last  sad  effort,  half  in  vain. 
To  follow  up  the  list  of  pain,  — 
And  I  could  almost  feel  and  see 
That  death  had  set  the  prisoner  free 

Ere  he  had  time  for  all ! 


CHATE.VU    d'iF.  123 

But,  saddest  still !  full  many  a  trace 
Remaiued  in  that  unhappy  place 
Of  the  wild  madness  which  despair 

Had  wrought  upon  the  brain, 
And  which  had  been  eternized  there 

In  agony  and  pain,  — 
The  madness  of  demoniac  glee, 
Vented  in  curse  and  blasphemy ; 
Dark  images  of  frenzied  mirth. 
In  the  heart's  misery  poured  forth ; 
Clingings  to  base,  unholy  things ; 
Unbridled,  vain  imaginings  ; 
Murmurs,  where  prayers  had  more  availed, 
Curses,  where  orisons  had  failed, 

Blood,  where  there  needed  tears ; 
And  still  each  base  impress  remained 
By  which  the  rough-hewn  walls  were  stained 

Of  erst,  in  long-passed  years. 

Others  had  been  less  dark  of  mood 

In  their  ungenial  solitude ; 

And  it  was  strange  to  mark  how  thought 

Was  with  bright  gleams  of  freedom  fraught: 

How  it  had  fondly  loved  to  rest 

On  each  unfettered  thing,  — 
A  ship  upon  the  billow's  crest, 

A  bird  upon  the  wing, 
A  tall  steed  riderless  and  free,  — 
All  symbols  of  that  liberty 

For  which  each  hour  they  sighed  ; 
And  it  was  maddeniiis:  to  know 


124  POEMS    or    PLACES. 

That  they  who  strove  to  cheat  their  woe. 
By  leaving-  tliis  mute  registry 
Of  their  heart-sickness  thus  to  me. 
Had  striven  till  they  died ! 


Ju/ia  Par  doe. 


Chartreuse,  La   Grande. 

THE  GRANDE  CHARTREUSE. 

AND  now,  emerging  from  the  forest's  gloom, 
I  greet  thee,  Chartreuse,  while  I  mourn  thy  doom 
Whither  is  fled  that  power  whose  frown  severe 
Awed  sober  Reason  till  she  crouched  in  fear  ? 
That  silence,  once  in  deathlike  fetters  bound, 
Chains  that  were  loosened  only  by  the  sound 
Of  holy  rites  chanted  in  measured  round  ? 
The  voice  of  blasphemy  the  fane  alarms, 
Tiie  cloister  startles  at  the  gleam  of  arms. 
The  thundering  tube  the  aged  angler  hears, 
Bent    o'er    the   groaning    flood    that   sweeps  away    his 

tears. 
Cloud-piercing  pine-trees  nod  tlieir  troubled  heads, 
Spires,  rocks,  and  lawns  a  browner  night  o'erspreads ; 
Strong  terror  checks  the  female  peasant's  sighs. 
And  start  the  astonished  shades  at  female  eyes. 
From  Bruno's  forest  screams  the  affrighted  jay. 
And  slow  the  insulted  eagle  wheels  away. 
A  viewless  flight  of  laughing  demons  niock 


CHARTREUSE,    LA    GRANDE.  125 

Tlie  cross  by  angels  planted  on  the  aerial  rock. 
The  parting  genius  sighs  with  hollow  breath 
Along  the  mystic  streams  of  life  and  death. 
Swelling  the  outcry  dull,  that  long  resounds 
Portentous  through  her  old  woods'  trackless  bounds, 
Vallombre,  mid  her  falling  fanes,  deplores, 
Forever  broke,  the  Sabbath  of  her  bowers. 

William  Wordsworth. 


THE  GRANDE  CH.\RTREUSE. 

rpHROUGH  Alpine  meadows  soft  suffused 
J-    With  rain,  where  thick  the  crocus  blows, 
Past  the  dark  forges  long  disused, 
The  mule-track  from  St.  Laurent  goes. 
The  +)ridge  is  crossed,  and  slow  we  ride, 
Through  forest,  up  the  mountain-side. 

The  autumnal  evening  darkens  round, 
The  wind  is  up,  and  drives  the  rain  ; 
While  hark  !  far  down,  with  strangled  sound 
Doth  the  Dead  Guiers'  stream  complain, 
Wfiere  that  wet  smoke  among  the  woods 
Over  his  boiling  caldron  broods. 

Swift  rush  the  spectral  vapors  white 

Past  limestone  scars  with  ragged-  pines. 

Showing,  then  blotting  from  our  sight. 

Halt !  through  the  cloud-drift  something  shines ! 

High  in  the  valley,  wet  and  drear, 

Tlie  huts  of  Courrerie  appear. 


126  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"  Strike  leftward  I  "  cries  our  guide ;  and  higher 
Mouuts  up  the  stony  forest-way. 
At  last  the  encircling  trees  retire  ; 
Look  !  through  the  showery  twilight  gray 
What  pointed  roofs  are  these  advance  ? 
A  palace  of  the  kings  of  France  ? 

Approach,  for  what  we  seek  is  here. 

Alight,  and  sparely  sup,  and  wait 

For  rest  in  tliis  outbuildnig  near ; 

Then  cross  the  sward,  and  reach  that  gate ; 

Knock  ;  pass  tlie  wicket !     Tiiou  art  come 

To  the  Carthusians'  world-famed  home. 

The  silent  courts  where,  night  and  day, 

Into  their  stone-carved  basins  cold  ^ 

The  splashing  icy  fountains  play, 

The  humid  corridors  behold. 

Where,  ghostlike  in  the  deepening  night, 

Cowled  forms  brush  by  in  gleaming  white. 

The  chapel,  where  no  organ's  peal 
Invests  the  stern  and  naked  prayer. 
With  penitential  cries  they  kneel 
And  wrestle  ;  rising  tiien,  with  bare 
And  white  uplifted  faces  stand. 
Passing  the  -Host  from  hand  to  hand. 

Each  takes,  and  then  his  visage  wan 
Is  buried  in  his  cowl  once  more. 
The  cells,  —  the  suffering  Son  of  Man 


CHARTREUSE,    LA    GRANDE.  127 

Upon  the  wall !  the  knee-worn  floor  ! 
And,  where  they  sleep,  that  wooden  bed, 
Which  shall  their  coffin  be,  when  dead. 

The  library,  where  tract  and  tome 

Not  to  feed  priestly  pride  are  there, 

To  hymn  the  conquering  march  of  Rome,  — 

Nor  yet  to  amuse,  as  ours  are. 

They  paint  of  souls  the  inner  strife. 

Their  drops  of  blood,  their  death  in  life. 

The  garden,  overgrown,  —  yet  mild 
Those  fragrant  herbs  are  flowering  there  ! 
Strong  children  of  the  Alpine  wild 
Whose  culture  is  the  brethren's  care, 
Of  human  tasks  their  only  one, 
And  cheerful  works  beneath  the  sun. 

Those  halls,  too,  destined  to  contain 
Each  its  own  pilgrim  host  of  old, 
From  England,  Germany,  or  Spain, 
All  are  before  me  !     I  behold 
The  house,  the  brotherhood  austere  ! 
And  what  am  I,  that  I  am  here  ? 

For  rigorous  teachers  seized  my  youth, 
And  purged  its  faith,  and  calmed  its  fire, 
Showed  me  the  high  white  star  of  truth. 
There  bade  me  gaze,  and  there  aspire. 
Even  now  their  whispers  pierce  the  gloom : 
"  What  dost  thou  in  this  living  tomb  ?  " 


128  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Forgive  me,  masters  of  the  mind ! 
At  whose  behest  I  long  ago 
So  much  unlearnt,  so  much  resigned ! 
I  come  not  here  to  be  your  foe. 
I  seek  tliese  anchorites,  not  in  ruth, 
To  curse  and  to  deny  your  truth  ; 

Not  as  their  friend  or  child  I  speak  ! 
But  as  on  some  far  northern  strand. 
Thinking  of  his  own  gods,  a  Greek 
In  pity  and  mournful  awe  might  stand 
Before  some  fallen  runic  stone,  — 
For  both  were  faiths,  and  both  are  gone. 

Wandering  between  two  worlds,  one  dead, 
The  other  powerless  to  be  born, 
With  nowhere  yet  to  rest  my  head, 
Like  these,  on  earth  I  wait  forlorn. 
Their  faith,  my  tears,  the  world  deride  ; 
I  come  to  shed  them  at  their  side. 

O,  hide  me  in  your  gloom  profound. 

Ye  solemn  seats  of  holy  pain  ! 

Take  me,  cowled  forms,  and  fence  me  round. 

Till  I  possess  my  soul  again  ! 

Till  free  my  tiiouglits  before  me  roll, 

Not  chafed  by  hourly  false  control. 

For  the  world  cries  your  faith  is  now 
But  a  dead  time's  exploded  dream ; 
My  melancholy,  sciolists  say. 


CHARTREUSE,    LA    GRANDE.  129 

Is  a  past  mode,  an  outworn  theme ;  — 
As  if  the  world  had  ever  had 
A  faith,  or  sciolists  been  sad. 

Ah,  if  it  be  passed,  take  away. 
At  least,  the  restlessness,  the  pain, — 
Be  man  henceforth  no  more  a  prey 
To  these  outdated  stings  again! 
The  nobleness  of  grief  is  gone,  — 
Ah,  leave  us  not  the  fret  alone  i 

But  if  you  cannot  give  us  ease, 
Last  of  the  race  of  them  who  grieve. 
Here  leave  us  to  die  out  with  these 
Last  of  the  people  who  believe ! 
Silent,  Avhile  years  engrave  the  brow ; 
Silent,  —  the  best  are  silent  now, 

Achilles  ponders  iu  his  tent, 
The  kings  of  modern  thought  are  dumb; 
Silent  they  are,  though  not  content. 
And  wait  to  see  the  future  come. 
They  have  the  grief  men  had  of  yore. 
But  tliey  contend  and  cry  no  more. 

Our  fathers  watered  with  their  tears 
This  sea  of  time  whereon  we  sail ; 
Their  voices  were  in  all  men's  ears 
Who  passed  within  their  puissant  hail. 
Still  the  same  ocean  round  us  raves. 
But  we  stand  mute  and  watch  the  waves. 


130  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

For  what  availed  it,  all  the  noise 

And  outcry  of  the  fonner  men  ? 

Say,  have  their  sons  obtained  more  joys  ? 

Say,  is  life  lighter  now  than  then  ? 

The  suiferers  died,  they  left  their  pain ; 

The  pangs  which  tortured  them  remain. 

What  helps  it  now,  that  Byron  bore. 

With  haughty  scorn  which  mocked  the  smart. 

Through  Europe  to  the  iEtoUan  shore 

The  pageant  of  his  bleeding  heart  ? 

That  thousands  counted  evei-y  groan. 

And  Europe  made  his  woe  her  own  ? 

What  boots  it,  Shelley,  that  the  breeze 

Carried  thy  lovely  wail  away. 

Musical  thr&ugh  Italian  trees 

That  fringe  thy  soft  blue  Spezzian  bay  ?  — 

Inheritors  of  thy  distress. 

Have  restless  hearts  one  throb  the  less  ? 

Or  are  we  easier  to  have  read, 
O  Obermami }  the  sad,  stern  page 
Which  tells  us  how  thou  hidd'st  thy  head 
From  the  fierce  tempest  of  thine  age 
In  the  lone  brakes  of  Fontainebleau, 
Or  chalets  near  the  Alpine  snow  ? 

Ye  slumber  in  your  silent  grave  1 
The  world,  which  for  an  idle  day 
Grace  to  vour  mood  of  sadness  srave. 


CHARTREUSE,    LA    GRANDE.  131 

Long  since  hatli  flung  lier  weeds  away. 
The  eternal  trifler  breaks  your  spell ; 
But  we,  —  we  learnt  your  lore  too  well ! 

There  may,  perhaps,  yet  dawn  an  age, 

More  fortunate,  alas,  than  we, 

Which  without  hardness  will  be  sage. 

And  gay  without  frivolity. 

Sons  of  the  world,  0,  haste  those  years ; 

But,  till  they  rise,  allow  our  tears ! 

Allow  them  !     We  admire,  with  awe. 
The  exulting  thunder  of  your  race ; 
You  give  the  universe  your  law. 
You  triumph  over  time  and  space. 
Your  pride  of  life,  your  tireless  powers. 
We  mark  them,  but  they  are  not  ours. 

We  are  like  children  reared  in  shade 

Beneath  some  Old-World  abbey  wall 

Forgotten  in  a  forest-glade 

And  secret  from  the  eyes  of  all ; 

Deep,  deep  the  greenwood  round  them  waves. 

Their  abbey,  and  its  close  of  graves. 

But  where  the  road  runs  near  the  stream. 
Oft  through  the  trees  they  catch  a  glance 
Of  passing  troops  in  the  sun's  beam,  — 
Pennon,  and  plume,  and  flashing  lance  ! 
Forth  to  the  world  those  lances  fare. 
To  life,  to  cities,  and  to  war. 


132  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  tlirougli  the  woods,  auotlier  way, 
Faint  bugle-notes  from  far  are  borne, 
Where  hunters  gather,  stag-hounds  bay, 
Round  some  old  forest -lodge  at  morn. 
Gay  dames  are  there,  in  sylvan  green ; 
Laughter  and  cries,  —  those  notes  between ! 

The  banners  flashing  through  the  trees 
Make  their  blood  dance  and  chain  their  eyes. 
That  bugle-music  on  the  breeze 
Arrests  them  with  a  charmed  surprise. 
Banner,  by  turns,  and  bugle  woo  : 
Ye  shy  recluses,  follow  too ! 

O  children,  what  do  ye  reply  ? 
"Action  and  pleasure,  will  ye  roam 
Through  these  secluded  dells  to  cry 
And  call  us  ?  but  too  late  ye  come  ! 
Too  late  for  us  your  call  ye  blow 
Whose  bent  was  taken  long  ago. 

"  Long  sinc3  we  pace  this  shadowed  nave ; 
We  watch  those  yellow  tapers  shine, 
Emblems  of  hope  over  the  grave, 
In  the  high  altar's  depth  divine ; 
The  organ  carries  to  our  ear 
Its  accents  of  another  sphere. 

"  Fenced  early  in  this  cloistral  round 

Of  revery,  of  shade,  of  prayer, 

How  should  we  grow  in  other  ground, 


CHAKTRtLSE,    LA    GRANDE.  133 

How  should  we  flower  in  foreign  air  ?  — 
Pass,  banners,  pass,  and,  bugles,  cease, 
And  leave  our  desert  to  its  peace  !  " 

Matthew  Arnold. 


IN  THE  VALLEY  OF  THE  GRANDE  CHAETREUSE. 

TORRENT  under  lofty  beeches,  under  larches  crest- 
ing high; 
Wanderer   by   the    wandering   stranger   slipping  softly, 
surely  by ; 

Born  among  Savoyan  snows  and  where  St.  Bruno,  hid 

with  God, 
Far  from   kindly   human  love,   the   road   of  tears   and 

rapture  trod ; 

Joining  then  the  vaUey-streamlet,  then  the  golden-green 

Isere, 
Then   where  Rhone's  broad   current   to   the  blue  their 

lordly  burden  bear;  — 

Torrent  under  lofty  beeches,  under  larches  cresting  high, 
Thou  art  southward  set,  and  southward  all  thy  waters 
strain  and  fly, — 

Sunny  South,  —  o'er   slope    and   summit   the  gray  mist 

of  olive  spread. 
Terrace  high  o'er  terrace  climbing,  lines  of  white,  vine- 

garlanded. 


134  POEMS    Of    PLACES. 

Ab,  another  vision  calls  me,  calls  me  to  the  Northern 

isle,  — 
Voices  from  beyond  the  mountain,  smiles  that  dim  the 

sun's  own  smile,  — 

And  I  set  my  soul  against  thee,  water  of  the  Southern 

sea: 
Thine  are  not  the  currents  toward  the  haven  where  my 

heart  would  be. 

Francis  Turner  Palgrave. 


Chenonceaux. 

THE  BANKS  OF  THE  CHER. 

IN  that  province  of  our  France 
Proud  of  being  called  its  garden, 
In  those  fields  where  once  by  chance 
Pepin's  father  with  his  lance 
Made  the  Saracen  sue  for  pardon ; 
There  between  the  old  chateau 
Which  two  hundred  years  ago 
Was  the  centre  of  the  League, 
Whose  infernal,  black  intrigue 
Almost  fatal  was,  't  is  reckoned. 
To  young  Prancis,  called  the  Second; 
And  that  pleasant  city's  wall 
Of  this  canton  capital. 
City  memorable  in  story, 


CHENONCEAUX.  135 

And  wliose  fruits  preserved  with  care 
Make  tlie  riches  and  the  glory 
Of  the  gourmands  everywliere  !  — 
Now,  a  more  prosaic  liead 
Without  verbiage  might  have  said, 
There  between  Tours  and  Amboise 
In  the  province  of  Touraine ; 
But  the  poet,  and  witli  cause. 
Loves  to  ponder  and  to  pause; 
Ever  more  his  soul  delighteth 
In  the  language  that  he  writeth, 
Finer  far  than  other  people's ; 
So,  while  he  describes  the  steeples. 
One  might  travel  through  Touraine, 
Far  as  Tours  and  back  again. 

On  the  borders  of  the  Cher 
Is  a  valley  green  and  fair. 
Where  the  eye,  tliat  travels  fast, 
Tires  with  the  horizon  vast ; 
There,  since  five  and  forty  lustres, 
From  the  bosom  of  the  stream, 
Like  the  castle  of  a  dream, 
High  into  the  fields  of  air 
The  chateau  of  Chenonceaux 
Lifts  its  glittering  vanes  in  clusters. 
Six  stone  arches  of  a  bridge 
Into  channels  six  divide 
The  swift  river  in  its  flow, 
And  upon  their  granite  ridge 
Hold  tliis  beautiful  chateau. 


136  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Flanked  with  turrets  on  eaclj  side. 
Time,  that  grand  old  man  with  wings. 
Who  destroys  all  earthly  tilings, 
Hath  not  tarnished  yet  one  stone. 
White  as  ermine  is  alone, 
Of  this  palace  of  dead  kings. 

One  in  speechless  wonder  sees 
In  the  rampart-walls  of  Blois, 
To  the  shame  of  the  Valois, 
Marble  stained  with  blood  of  Guise; 
By  the  criuies  that  it  can  show. 
By  its  war-beleaguered  gates, 
Famous  be  that  black  chateau ; 
Thou  art  famous  for  thy  fetes 
And  thy  feastings,  Chenonceaux  ! 
Ah,  most  beautiful  of  places. 
With  what  pleasure  tiiee  I  see  ; 
Everywhere  the  selfsame  traces, 
Residence  of  all  the  Graces 
And  Love's  inn  and  hostelry  ! 

Here  that  second  Agrippina, 
The  imperious  Catharina, 
Jealous  of  all  pleasant  things. 
To  her  cruel  purpose  still 
Subjugating  every  will, 
Kept  her  sons  as  underlings 
Fastened  to  her  apron-strings. 

Here,  divested  of  his  armor. 
As  gallant  as  he  was  brave, 


CHENONCEAUX.  137 

Francis  First  to  some  fair  charmer 

Many  an  hour  of  dalliance  gave. 

Here,  beneath  these  ceilings  florid, 

Chose  Diana  her  retreat,  — 

Not  Diana  of  the  groves 

With  the  crescent  on  her  forehead, 

Who,  as  swiftest  arrow  fleet. 

Flies  before  all  earthly  loves; 

But  that  charming  mortal  dame. 

She  the  Poiterine  alone. 

She  the  Second  Henry's  flame. 

Who  with  her  celestial  zone 

Loves  and  Laughters  made  secure 

From  baiiks  of  Cher  to  banks  of  Eure. 

Cher,  whose  stream,  obscure  and  troubled. 

Flowed  before  witii  many  a  halt. 

By  this  palace  is  ennobled, 

Since  it  bathes  its  noble  vault. 

Even  the  boatman,  hurrying  fast, 

Pauses,  mute  with  admiration 

To  behold  a  pile  so  vast 

Rising  like  an  exhalation 

From  the  streaui  ;    and  with  his  mast 

Lowered  salutes  it,  gliding  past. 

Ant ohie- Marie  Lemierre.     Tr.   Anon. 


138  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Chinon, 

CHINON. 

SCARCE  had  the  earliest  raj  from  Cliinon's  towers 
Made  visible  the  mists  that  curled  along 
The  winding  waves  of  Vienne,  when  from  her  couch 
Started  the  martial  maid.     She  mailed  her  limbs ; 
The  white  plumes  nodded  o'er  her  helmed  head ; 
She  girt  the  sacred  falchion  bj  her  side, 
And,  like  some  youth  that  from  his  mother's  arms, 
Tor  his  first  field  impatient,  breaks  away. 
Poising  the  lance  went  forth. 

Twelve  hundred  men, 
Rearing  in  ordered  ranks  their  well-sharped  spears, 
Await  her  coming.     Terrible  in  arms. 
Before  them  towered  Dunois,  his  manly  face 
Dark-shadowed  by  the  helmet's  iron  cheeks. 
The  assembled  court  gazed  on  the  marshalled  train, 
And  at  the  gate  the  aged  prelate  stood 
To  pour  his  blessing  on  the  chosen  host. 
And  now  a  soft  and  solemn  symphony 
Was  heard,  and,  chanting  high  the  hallowed  hymn. 
From  the  near  convent  came  the  vestal  maids. 
A  holy  banner,  woven  by  virgin  hands, 
Snow-white  they  bore.     A  mingled  sentiment 
Of  awe,  and  eager  ardor  for  the  fight. 
Thrilled  through  the  troops,  as  he  the  reverend  man 
Took  the  white  standard,  and  with  heavenward  eye 
Called  on  the  God  of  Justice,  blessing  it. 


CLERMONT.  139 

The  Maid,  her  brows  in  reverence  unhelmed, 

Her  dark  hair  floating  on  the  morning  gale. 

Knelt  to  his  prayer,  and,  stretching  forth  her  hand. 

Received  the  mystic  ensign.     From  the  host 

A  loud  and  universal  shout  burst  forth, 

As  rising  from  the  ground,  on  her  white  brow 

She  placed  the  plumed  casque,  and  waved  on  high 

The  bannered  lilies.     On  their  way  they  march, 

And  dim  in  distance,  soon  the  towers  of-Chinon 

Fade  from  the  eye  reverted. 

Robert  Soiithey. 


Clermont. 

THE  COUNCIL  OF  CLERMONT. 

AMID  the  throng  the  Hermit  stood;  so  wan. 
Careworn,  and  travel-soiled  ;  with  genius  high 
Throned  on  his  brow,  shrined  in  his  spiritual  eye. 
The  Hermit  spake,  and  through  the  council  ran 
A  tremor,  not  of  fear ;  as  in  the  van, 
Chafing  before  embattled  chivalry, 
A  proud  steed  listens  for  the  clarion's  cry, 
So  sprang  they  to  their  feet:  and  every  man, 
Pontiff  and  prince,  prelate  and  peer,  caught  up 
Their  swords,  and  kissed  the  crosiered  hilts,  and  swore, 
As  though  their  lips  the  sacramental  cup 
Had  touched,  Christ's  sepulchre  to  freel    The  shore 
Of  Asia  heard  that  sound,  in  thunder  hurled,  — 
" Beus  id  vult,^'  —  from  Clermont  through  the  world! 

Sir  Aubrey  de  Veie. 


140  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Glisson. 

CLISSON. 

IT  was  a  dark  autumnal  day 
When  first  to  Clissoii  I  would  stray ; 
The  groves  were  clad  in  brown  and  green. 
To  suit  the  interval  between 
The  parting  friend  and  coming  foe 
So  sure  to  lay  their  beauties  low. 
Thick  hedge-rows,  groves,  and  small  rich  fields. 
The  region  that  surrounds  it  yields ; 
Methought  I  spied  at  each  brake  pass' 
The  peasants  risen  in  a  mass, 
Intrenched  within  the  pathless  wood, 
Where  hostile  legions  were  withstood 
By  rustics  all  like  heroes  now, 
With  sacred  cause  and  holy  vow. 

But  changed  abruptly  all  I  found. 
Descending  o'er  a  rugged  ground ; 
Until  I  reached  a  deep  ravine, 
The  Sevre  winding  on  between; 
When  suddenly  there  raised  its  head. 
All  spectral-like,  quite  causing  dread, 
The  vast  huge  pile,  so  dark  and  hoary. 
Whose  checkered  fame  aye  lives  in  story. 
While  stretched  along  and  at  its  feet 
I  saw  the  village  winding  street 
Far  scattered  up  and  down,  and  strange; 
Just  such  as  on  some  Alpine  range 


CLISSON.  141 

Will  lead  you  to  the  welcome  spot 
Where  soon  fatigues  are  all  forgot. 

Long  grass-grown  steps  cut  o'er  the  rock 

Which  shelves  down  in  a  mighty  block 

Conduct  you  to  the  portals  grand 

Which  green  with  ivy  proudly  stand. 

There  now,  within  these  crumbling  walls, 

Lives  recent  Fame  that  pity  calls. 

When  standing  o'er  that  fatal  well 

Down  whose  dark  depths  the  victims  fell, 

Who  fought  to  stay  an  impious  hand 

And  cruel  despots  to  withstand. 

Then  on  I  strayed  througli  towers  vast 

That  now  stand  open  to  the  blast. 

All  roofless,  split  on  every  side, 

Where  owls  and  bats  can  well  abide. 

Such  canopies  of  creeping  flowers 

Combine  with  walls  to  make  their  bowers, 

Through  courts  where  huge  trees  cast  a  shade 

As  in  some  haunted  forest  glade, 

Through  many  a  grim,  spacious  room 

Where  all  is  desolation,  gloom; 

Each  window  still  with  iron  barred. 

As  suiting  manners  stern  and  hard. 

If  possible,  more  dreary  still, 

From  such  left  traces  of  the  skill 

Which  fashioned  all  things  that  you  see. 

If  not  for  pain,  with  mystery. 

Kenelm  Henry  Dlghy, 


142  POEMS    OF    PLACES, 


THE  CASTLE  OF  CLISSON. 


CLISSON !  thy  towers,  thy  depth  of  sunless  caves, 
-    Thy  humid  corridors  that  smother  sound, 
And  thy  gapped  windows  whence  the  violet  waves 
A  sweet  farewell  to  Legend  lingering  round, 
And  mingling  whispers  echoed  from  afar, 
Invite  and  chain   my  steps   here  where   thy  mysteries 
are. 

The  clang  of  steel  smiting  thy  solid  stones 
Goes  with  me  as  I  wind  within  thy  towers; 
Thy  oubliettes  unseal  their  ancient  groans. 
And  fright  tlie  swallows  from  their  airy  bowers; 
Silks  rustle,  and  the  gray  of  oeillets  old 
Gleams  with  gemmed  arms  across  the  arras  fold. 

All  this  is  Legend's  and  fond  Fancy's  work. 
They  give  a  tongue  to  every  silent  block ; 
For,  like  to  Memnon,  now  no  voices  lurk. 
The  sun  of  Chivalry  set,  in  the  dumb  rock. 
In  moody  sadness  frowns  the  questioned  pile. 
Where  only  wild-flowers   live,   and  scarcely   sunbeams 
smile. 

Below  thy  festering  feet  the  undaunted  wave 
IV^hirls  with  a  song  past  roofs  no  more  profaned. 
And  the  wood-dove  rebuilds  above  the  grave 
Of  other  doves  in  what  from  spoils  reclaimed. 
Of  that  sweet  grove  where  Eloisa's  woes 
Sighed  to  the   quivering  leaves   from  yon  dark  cave's 
repose. 


CRESSY  (crecy).  143 

Here  her  strong  spirit  felt  how  vain  the  lore, 
Heaped  from  all  Eld,  to  dam  pale  passion's  course, 
Wish  chasing  wish  more  burning  than  before, 
And  her  heart  emptied  to  its  inmost  source, 
To  madden  with  new  waters  and  swift  growing 
Of  Love's  wild  passion-flower  beside  its  flowing. 

Thy  cavern-like  yon  murderous  tower  is  still, 
It  throbs  no  more  with  fiery  sighs  like  thine; 
The  lizard  glances  past  its  portals  chill, 
And  witliered  vine-leaves  over  it  entwine; 
The  paths  around  are  choked,  and  bear  no  more 
Feet  chased   by  passionate   breath  along  that   glowing 
shore. 

Thomas  Gold  Applet  on. 

Cressy  (Crec?j). 

THE  BALLAD  OF  CRECY. 

WHAT  man-at-arms,  or  knight 
Of  doughty  deeds  in  fight, — 
What  king  whose  dauntless  might 

Still  lives  in  story. 
Deserves  such  fame  as  one 
Who,  when  his  sight  was  gone, 
Fought  till  he  fell, —King  John, 
Bohemia's  glory  ? 

That  fatal  August  day 

The  French  and  English  lay 

Drawn  up  in  dread  array, 

With  bows  and  lances, 


144  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Determined  then  to  try 
Which  host  could  bravest  die, 
Whicli  host  would  soonest  fly, — 
England's  or  IVance's. 

The  morning  light  revealed, 

On  Crecy's  famous  field, 

Armed  with  his  spear  and  shield. 

This  fearless  foeman, 
Who,  with  his  old  blind  eyes, 
Will  for  his  French  allies 
Do  battle  till  he  dies, — 

And  fly  from  no  man! 

His  bridle-rein  he  tied 

To  a  good  knight's  at  his  side, 

Among  the  French  to  ride, 

That  saw  astounded 
Who  with  their  foremost  prest, 
His  shield  before  his  breast, 
His  long  spear  set  in  rest,  — 

The  trumpet  sounded ! 

Full  tilt  against  their  foes, 
Where  thickest  fell  the  blows, 
And  war-cries  mingling  rose, 

"St.  George!"    "St.  Denys!" 
Driven  by  the  trumpet's  blare 
Where  most  the  English  dare. 
And  where  the  French  despair, — 

He  there  and  tlien  is  I 

Up,  down,  he  rode,  and  thrust ; 
Unhorsed,  knights  rolled  in  dust; 


CRESSY  (crecy).  145 

Whom  he  encounters  must 

Go  down  or  fly  him : 
All  round  the  bloody  field 
Spears  rattle  on  his  shield, 
But  none  can  make  him  yield; 

Few  venture  nigh  him. 

Here,  there,  he  rides  until 
His  horse  perforce  stands  still: 
He  spurs  it,  but  it  will 

No  longer  mind  him; 
It  cannot  stir  for  fright. 
So  desperate  now  the  fight, 
Death  on  the  left,  the  right. 

Before,  behind  him ! 

But  this,  so  blind  was  he. 
The  old  king  could  not  see; 
An  he  had  seen,  pardie ! 

His  soul  delighting 
Had  faster  rained  down  blows 
Upon  his  puny  foes, 
And  in  the  dark  death-throes 

Had  gone  out  fightiug ! 

When  the  last  rout  was  done. 
And  when  the  Euglish  won. 
They  found  the  brave  King  John, 

Who  fought  so  lately. 
Stone  dead, — his  old  blind  eyes 
Uplooking  to  the  skies. 
As  he  again  would  rise 

And  battle  greatly  ! 


146  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Tliey  bore  liim  to  his  rest. 
His  shield  upon  iiis  breast, 
Where  blazoned  was  his  crest, — 

Three  ostrich  feathers ; 
Under,  in  gold,  was  seen 
The  royal  words,  "  Ich  Dieu," 
Which  most  kings  now  think  mean,  — 

Save  in  foul  weathers ! 

Not  so  the  Black  Prince  thought. 
Who  then  at  Crecy  fought. 
And  old  John's  valor  caught, 

And  was  victorious. 
"  Who  serve  like  him,"  quoth  he, 
"  Commend  themselves  to  me  ; 
Such  royal  servants  be 

Forever  glorious ! " 

Richard  Henry  Stoddard. 


Corsica. 

COKSICA. 

HOW  raptured  fancy  burns,  while  warm  in  thought 
I  trace  tlie  pictured  landscape  ;    while  I  kiss 
With  pilgrim  lips  devout  the  sacred  soil 
Stained  with  the  blood  of  heroes.     Cyrnus,  hail! 
Hail  to  thy  rocky,  deep  indented  shores. 
And  pointed  cliffs,  which  hear  the  chafing  deep 
Incessant  foaming  round  thy  shaggy  sides. 
Hail  to  thy  winding  bays,  thy  sheltering  ports. 
And  ample  harbors,  which  inviting  stretch 


CORSICA.  147 

Their  hospitable  arms  to  every  sail: 

Thy  numerous  streams,  that  bursting  from  the  cliffs 

Down  the  steep  channelled  rock  impetuous  pour 

With  grateful  murmur :    on  the  fearful  edge 

Of  the  rude  precipice,  thy  hamlets  brown 

And  straw-roofed  cots,  which  from  the  level  vale 

Scarce  seen,  amongst  the  craggy  hanging  cliifs 

Seem  like  an  eagle's  nest  aerial  built. 

Thy  swelling  mountains,  brown  with  solemn  shade 

Of  various  trees,  that  wave  their  giant  arms 

O'er  the  rough  sons  of  freedom  ;    lofty  pines, 

And  hardy  fir,  and  ilex  ever  green. 

And  spreading  chestnut,  with  each  humbler  plant. 

And  shrub  of  fragrant  leaf,  that  clothes  their  sides 

With  living  verdure ;    whence  the  clustering  bee 

Extracts  iier  golden  dews :    the  shining  box 

And  sweet-leaved  myrtle,  aromatic  thyme, 

The  prickly  juniper,  and  the  green  leaf 

Which  feeds  the  spinning  worm  ;    while  glowing  bright 

Beneath  the  various  foliage,  wildly  spreads 

The  arbutus,  and  rears  his  scarlet  fruit 

Luxuriant,  mantling  o'er  the  craggy  steeps ; 

And  thy  own  native  laurel  crowns  the  scene. 

Hail  to  thy  savage  forests,  awful,  deep ; 

Thy  tangled  thickets,  and  thy  crowded  woods. 

The  haunt  of  herds  untamed;   which  sullen  bound 

From  rock  to  rock  with  fierce,  unsocial  air. 

And  wilder  gaze,  as  conscious  of  the  power 

That  loves  to  reign  amid  the  lonely  scenes 

Of  unquelled  nature  :    precipices  huge. 

And  tumbling  torrents ;    trackless  deserts,  plains 


148  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Eenced  in  with  guardian  rocks,  whose  quarries  teem 

With  shining  steel,  that  to  tlie  cultured  fields 

And  sunn}'^  hills  which  wave  with  bearded  grain. 

Defends  their  homely  produce.     Liberty, 

The  mountain  goddess,  loves  to  range  at  large 

Amid  such  scenes,  and  on  the  iron  soil 

Prints  her  majestic  step.     For  these  she  scorns 

The  green  enamelled  vales,  the  velvet  lap 

Of  smooth  savannahs,  where  the  pillowed  head 

Of  luxury  reposes ;   balmy  gales, 

And  bowers  that  breathe  of  bliss.    For  these,  when  first 

This  isle  emerging  like  a  beauteous  gem 

From  the  dark  bosom  of  the  Tyrrhene  main, 

Reared  its  fair  front,  she  marked  it  for  her  own, 

And  witli  her  spirit  warmed.     Her  genuine  sons, 

A  broken  remnant,  from  tlie  generous  stock 

Of  ancient  Greece,  from  Sparta's  sad  remains, 

True  to  their  high  descent,  preserved  unquenched 

The  sacred  fire  through  many  a  barbarous  age : 

Whom  nor  the  iron  rod  of  cruel  Carthage, 

Nor  the  dread  sceptre  of  imperial  Rome, 

Nor  bloody  Goth,  nor  grisly  Saracen, 

Nor  the  loug  galling  yoke  of  proiul  Liguria, 

Could  crush  into  subjection.     Still  unquelled 

Tliey  rose  superior,  bursting  from  their  chains, 

And  claimed  man's  dearest  birthright,  liberty: 

And  long,  through  many  a  hard  unequal  strife, 

Maintained  the  glorious  conflict ;    long  withstood, 

With  single  arm,  th:;  whole  collected  force 

Of  haughty  Genoa  and  ambitious  Gaul. 

Anna  Let'dia  Barhauld. 


COUTRAS.  149 


Coutras. 


THE  DEATH  OF  JOYEUSE. 

BETWEEN  La  Roclie  and  Coutras 
Was  heard  our  battle-cry  ; 
And  still  we  called,  "  To  arms  !    to  arms  ! 
Our  voices  rent  the  sky. 

Our  king  was  there  with  all  his  men, 

And  all  his  guards  beside ; 
Within,  the  Duke  de  Joyeuse, 

And  to  the  king  he  cried: 

"  0,  yield,  King  Henry,  yield  to  me !  "  — 
"  What  simple  squire  art  thou, 

To  bid  King  Henry  yield  him, 
And  to  thy  bidding  bow?" 

"  I  am  no  simple  squire, 

But  a  knight  of  high  degree  ; 

I  am  the  Duke  de  Joyeuse, 
And  thou  must  yield  to  me.'* 

The  king  has  placed  his  cannon 

In  lines  against  the  wall,  — 
The  first  fire  Joyeuse  trembled, 

The  next  saw  Joyeuse  fall. 


/^ 


150  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Alas  !   his  little  children, 

How  sad  will  be  their  fate !  — 
A  nurse  both  young  and  pretty 

Shall  on  them  tend  and  wait; 
And  they  shall  be  brave  warriors 

When  they  come  to  man's  estate. 

A?ion.     Tr.  Louisa  Stuart  Costello. 


Dieppe, 

AT  DIEPPE. 

THE  shivering  column  of  the  moonlight  lies 
Upon  the  crumbling  sea ; 
Down  the  lone  shore  the  flying  curlew  cries 
Half  humanly. 

With  hoarse,  dull  wash  the  backward  dragging  surge 

Its  raucid  pebbles  rakes. 
Or  swelling  dark  runs  down  with  toppling  verge. 

And  flashing  breaks. 

The  lighthouse  flares  and  darkens  from  the  cliff. 

And  stares  with  lurid  eye 
Fiercely  along  the  sea  and  shore,  as  if 

Some  foe  to  spy. 

What  knowing  thought,  0  ever-moaning  sea, 
Haunts  thy  perturbed  breast,  — 


DINAN.  151 

What  dark  crime  weighs  upon  thy  memory 
And  spoils  thy  rest? 

Thy  soft  swell  lifts  and  swings  the  new-launched  yacht 

With  polished  spars  and  deck, 
But  crawls  and  grovels  where  the  bare  ribs  rot 

Of  the  old  wreck. 

0  treacherous  courtier !    thy  deceitful  lie 

To  youth  is  gayly  told, 

But  in  remorse  I  see  thee  cringingly 

Crouch  to  the  old. 

William  Wetmore  Story. 


Dinan, 

THE  BARON  DE  JAUIOZ. 


"  T  STOOD  beside  the  running  stream, 
i-     And  heard  the  mournful  deatli-bird  say; 

*  Tina,  know'st  thou,  't  is  no  dream, 
Thou  art  bought  and  sold  to-day  ?  ' 

"Mother,  mother,  is  it  true. 

What  the  death-bird  said  he  knew? 

Am  I,  for  the  love  of  gold, 
To  the  aged  Baron  sold  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  dear  child,  T  cannot  tell ; 
Ask  thy  father  for  the  truth." 


152  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"Father,  is  it  fixed  to  sell 

To  old  age  thy  daugliter's  j'outli  ?  '* 

"Daughter,  urge  me  not,  I  pray; 

Ask  thy  brother,  —  he  can  say." 
"  Lannik  !  —  brother  !  —  speak  the  word, 

Am  I  sold  to  Jauioz's  lord  ?  " 

"  Sister,  thou  art  sold.     Be  wise, 

For  thy  price  was  brought  to-day; 
Let  no  tears  bedim  thine  eyes. 

Let  thy  gear  be  brave  and  gay. 
Fifty  crowns  of  silver  white. 
Fifty  more  of  gold  so  bright, 
Jauioz's  lord  for  thee  has  paid, 
Be  thy  fortune  marred  or  made  ! " 

"  Mother,  shall  thy  child  be  drest 

In  the  white  robe,  or  the  red? 
Which  would  suit  a  bride  the  best? 

Or  will  black  be  well  instead, 
That  my  sister  Helen  sewed?" 
"  Daughter,  ask  me  not.     The  road 
Will  be  rough,  and  dark  the  way; 

Dress  thee  quickly,  for  thy  steed. 
Yon  black  courser,  trapped  so  gay, 

Waits  to  bear  thee  hence  with  speed.' 


n. 

'T  was  not  far  she  rode  when  loud 
On  the  air  came  sounds  she  knew 


DINAN.  153 

'T  was  the  bells  that  rang  so  proud, 

Then  she  wept :  "  St.  Anne,  adieu  ! 
All  my  native  bells,  farewell! 
Ye  have  tolled  my  funeral  knell !  " 

By  the  Lalce  of  Pain  ^  she  passed  : 

There  she  saw  a  ghastly  band; 
White  their  garments,  and  the  blast 

Drove  their  shadowy  barks  to  laud. 

Crowds  of  spectres  were  the  crew. 

Souls  who  seek  in  vain  for  rest ; 
Hard  her  struggling  breath  she  drew, 

And  her  head  sunk  on  her  breast. 

When  the  Vale  of  Blood  she  neared. 
All  that  ghastly  band,  with  speed. 

Following  in  pursuit  appeared 

Close  behind  her  coal-black  steed  ! 

Hideous  forms  and  sights  of  fear 

Press  her  nearer  and  more  near. 

All  her  senses  chilled  with  woe. 

Pull  of  horror  and  dismay. 
Motionless  and  pale  as  snow. 

At  the  Baron's  gate  she  lay. 


"  Wake  thee,  Tina,  't  is  thy  lord ; 
Seat  thee  by  the  blazing  hearth  ; 

1  It  was  supposed  that  France  was  divided  from  Bretagne  by  a  lake 
which  was  called  Lac  de  I'Angoisse  and  l)y  a  valley  called  Vallee  du  Sang. 


154  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

See,  they  spread  the  festal  board, 
Hark  tlie  minstrels  and  the  mirth !  " 

By  the  fire  the  Baron  stands. 
Black  liis  raven  locks  as  night, 

Eyes  that  glow  like  flaming  brands. 
Hair  and  beard  all  hoary  white. 

"  Long  1  've  sought  this  blooming  maid. 

She  is  mine,  at  last ! "  he  said. 

"  Come,  fair  girl,  and  view  my  store, 

Count  my  riches  o'er  and  o'er, 

Come  with  me  from  room  to  room." 

"  Baron  Jauioz,  take  me  home  ! 

Rather,  by  my  mother's  side. 

Counting  billets  for  our  fire. 
Would  I  all  my  life  abide ; 

And  no  riches  I  desire." 
"See,  my  caves  are  filled  with  wine, 

Drink,  —  't  is  sweet,  a  cure  for  care.'* 
*'  Brighter  does  the  streamlet  shine 

Where  my  father's  flocks  repair  !  '* 
"  Come  and  choose  throughout  the  town 

Broidered  robes  all  rich  and  grand." 
"Better  is  a  woollen  gown 

Made  me  by  my  mother's  hand." 
"  Come,  behold  this  cincture  bright 

Dazzling  all  whene'er  you  move." 
"  Better  is  the  girdle  white 

Which  mv  sister  Helen  wove !  " 


DINAN.  155 

'^Girl!  thy  words  are  liarsli  and  cold, 

Hatred  in  each  look  is  told ! 

Curses  on  my  gold  that  bought  thee  ! 

Curses  on  my  heart  that  sought  thee! 

Idiot  that  I  was,  —  my  gain 

Is  but  tears,  reproach,  and  pain," 


IV. 

"Little  birds  that  roam  so  free. 
Hear  my  voice,  and  list  to  me. 
You  can  to  my  village  liie, 

I,  alas !  am  captive  here ; 
I  am  sunk  in  misery. 

You  are  full  of  joyous  cheer. 
To  my  village  wiien  ye  rove 

All  my  friends  your  eyes  may  view. 
To  my  mother  bear  my  love, 

To  my  father  bear  it,  too. 
Bless,  my  mother  day  by  day. 

To  our  priest  my  greetings  tell. 
To  my  brother  whispering  say, 

I  have  pardoned  him,  —  farewell !  " 

V. 

Months  were  gone :  't  was  midnight  deep, 
All  was  hushed  in  silent  sleep ; 
Not  a  footstep  pressed  the  floor. 

Nothing  stirred,  above,  around, 
When  a  soft,  voice  at  the  door 

Murmured  words  of  mournful  sound : 


156  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"Fatlier,  motlier,  wake  and  pray, 
And  your  mourning  weeds  prepare, 

Tor  my  soul  a  requiem  say, 

Comfort  me  with  many  a  prayer. 

Heave  the  sigli,  and  shed  the  tear, 

Eor  your  child  lies  on  her  bier." 

Anon.     Tr.  Louisa  Stuart  Costello. 


Domremy, 

JOAN  OF  ARC. 

DAUPHIN,  T  am  hy  birtli  a  shepherd's  daughter, 
My  wit  untrain'd  in  any  kind  of  art. 
Heaven  and  our  Lady  gracious  hath  it  pleas'd 
To  sliine  on  my  contemptible  estate: 
Lo !  wliilst  I  waited  on  my  tender  lambs. 
And  to  sun's  parcliiiig  lieat  display'd  my  cheeks, 
God's  mother  deigned  to  appear  to  me; 
And,  in  a  vision  full  of  majesty, 
"VVill'd  me  to  leave  my  base  vocation, 
And  free  my  country  from  calamity. 
Her  aid  she  promis'd,  and  assur'd  success: 
In  complete  glory  she  reveal'd  herself; 
And,  whereas  I  was  black  and  swart  before. 
With  those  clear  rays  which  she  infus'd  on  me, 
Tliat  beauty  am  T  bless'd  with,  whicli  you  see. 

William  Shakespeare. 


DOMKEMY.  157 


JOAN  OF  ARC'S  FAREWELL  TO  HER  HOME. 

FAREWELL,  ye  mountains,  ye  beloved  pastures, 
And  peaceful,  frieudly  valleys ;  fare  ye  well. 
Joan  no  more  along  your  paths  may  wander; 

She  bids  you  now  a  fond,  a  last  farewell ; 
Meadows  that  I  have  watered,  trees  I  planted, 

Long  may  your  smiling  green  my  kindness  tell ; 
Farewell,  ye  cooling  grottos,  murmuring  fountains, 

And  thou,  soft  Echo,  voice  of  the  lone  dell, 
That  oft  mad'st  answer  to  my  jocund  strain;  — 
Joan  may  never  visit  you  again  ! 

Ye  scenes  where  all  my  quiet  joys  were  found, 

I  leave  you  here  behind  forevermore ; 
Ye  lambkins  sporting  on  the  flowery  ground, 

Soon,  a  lost  flock,  ye  '11  roam  the  mountains  o'er; 
I  go  to  lead  another  flock,  mid  sound 

Of  drum  and  trumpet,  on  a  field  of  gore. 
A  spirit's  voice  hath  summoned  me,  —  I  yield,  — 
No  earth-born  passion  spurs  me  to  the  fiald. 

113  who  of  old  on  Horeb's  height  came  down, 
And  from  the  burning  bush  to  Moses  spake ; 

Who  bade  him  stand  and  brave  stern  Pharaoh's  frown  ; 
Who  bade  the  shepherd-son  of  Jesse  take 

A  warrior's  spear  and  wear  a  kingly  crown ; 

Who  still  loves  shepherds  for  his  mercy's  sake,  — 

To  me  hath  spoken  from  yon  whispering  tree,  — 

"  Go  forth ;  thou  shalt  on  earth  mv  witness  be  ! 


158  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"  Go,  and  lieucefortli  tlie  brazen  armor  prove ; 

Bind  tlie  steel  breastplate  to  thy  tender  breast ; 
Let  not  man's  love  liave  power  thy  heart  to  move. 

Nor  wild,  unholy  fires  thy  soul  molest ; 
No  bridal  wreath  shall  bloom  thy  brow  above, 

No  smiling  infant  on  thy  bosom  rest ;  — 
Yet  shall  the  hero's  lasting  fame  be  tliine ; 
Above  earth's  noblest  daughters  thou  shalt  shine, 

"  When  in  the  shock  of  fight  the  mightiest  reel, 
When  the  last  hour  of  France  is  drawing  nigh, 
Then  shalt  thou  wave  my  oriflamb  on  high. 

Like  corn  before  the  reaping  maiden's  steel. 
Low  in  the  dust  shalt  see  the  tyrant  lie. 

Roll  back  his  ])roud,  triumphant  chariot  wheel. 
To  the  brave  sons  of  France  salvation  bring, 
Deliver  Rheims,  and  crown  thy  rightful  king." 

The  Lord  of  Hosts  hath  promised  me  a  sign, 
And  now  he  sends  this  helmet,  —  't  is  from  him  ! 

Its  iron  touch  nerves  me  with  power  divine  ; 
I  feel  the  glory  of  the  cherubim ; 

I  must  away  to  join  the  bristling  line,  — 

A  tempest  whirls  me  onward ;  earth  grows  dim ; 

Tiie  din  of  battle  summons  me  away  ; 

The  war-steed  j)rances,  and  the  trumpets  bray. 

Friedrich  Schiller.     Tr.  Charles  Timothy  Brooks. 


DOMR^MY.  159 


THE  MAID  OF  ORLEANS. 

AT  thee  the  mocker  sneers  iii  cold  derision, 
Through  thee  he  seeks  to  desecrate  and  dim 
Glory  for  which  he  hath  no  soul  or  vision, 

For  "God"  and  "Angel"  are  but  sounds  with  him. 
He  makes  the  jewels  of  the  heart  his  booty. 
And  scoffs  at  man's  belief  and  woman's  beauty. 

Yet  thou  —  a  lowly  shepherdess  !  —  descended 

Not  from  a  kingly  but  a  godly  race, 
Art  crowned  by  Poesy  !     Amid  the  splendid 

Of  lieaven's  high  stars  she  builds  thy  dwelling-placey 
Garlands  thy  temples  with  a  wreath  of  glory, 
And  swathes  thy  memory  in  eternal  story. 

The  base  of  this  weak  world  exult  at  seeing 
The  fair  defaced,  the  lofty  in  the  dust ; 

Yet  grieve  not !     There  are  godlike  hearts  in  being 
Which  worship  still  the  beautiful  and  just. 

Let  Momus  and  his  mummers  please  the  crowd, 

Of  nobleness  alone  a  noble  mind  is  proud. 

Triedrich  Schiller,     Tr.  James  Clarence  Mangan. 


DOMREMY. 

Amid  these  wilds 
Often  to  summer  pasture  have  I  driven 
The  flock ;  and  well  I  know  these  woodland  wilds. 
And  every  bosomed  vale  and  valley  stream 


160  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Is  dear  to  memory.     I  have  laid  me  down 
Beside  joii  valley  stream,  that  up  the  ascent 
Scarce  sends  tlie  sound  of  waters  now,  and  watched 
The  beck  roll  glittering  to  the  noontide  snn, 
And  listened  to  its  ceaseless  murmuring. 
Till  all  was  hushed  and  tranquil  in  my  soul, 
Filled  with  a  strange  and  undefined  delight 
That  passed  across  the  mind  like  summer  clouds 
Over  the  vale  at  eve ;  their  fleeting  hues 
The  traveller  cannot  trace  with  memory's  eye. 
Yet  he  remembers  well  how  fair  they  were, 
How  beautiful. 

In  solitude  and  peace 
Here  I  grew  up,  amid  the  loveliest  scenes 
Of  unpolluted  nature.     Sweet  it  was, 
As  the  white  mists  of  morning  rolled  away, 
To  see  the  upland's  wooded  heights  appear 
Dark  in  the  early  dawn,  and  mark  the  slope 
With  gorse-flowers  glowing,  as  the  sun  illumed 
Their  golden  glory  with  his  deepening  light ; 
Pleasant  at  noon  beside  the  vocal  brook 
To  lay  me  down,  and  watch  the  floating  clouds, 
And  shape  to  fancy's  wild  similitudes 
Their  ever-varying  forms;  and  0,  how  sweet! 
To  drive  my  flock  at  evening  to  the  fold. 
And  hasten  to  our  little  hut,  and  hear 
The  voice  of  kindness  bid  me  welcome  home. 

Robert  Southei/. 


DREUX.  161 


Dreux, 

KING  HENRY  THE  FIFTH  AND  THE  HERMIT  OF  DREUX. 

HE  passed  unquestioned  tlirougli  the  camp; 
Their  heads  the  soldiers  bent 
In  silent  reverence,  or  begged 

A  blessing  as  he  went ; 
And  so  the  hermit  passed  along, 
And  reached  the  royal  tent. 

King  Henry  sate  in  his  tent  alone ; 

The  map  before  him  lay : 
Fresh  conquests  he  was  planning  there 

To  grace  the  future  day. 

King  Henry  lifted  up  his  eyes 

The  intruder  to  behold ; 
With  reverence  he  the  hermit  saw, 

For  the  holy  man  was  old; 
His  look  was  gentle  as  a  saint's, 

And  yet  his  eye  was  bold. 

"  Repent  thee,  Henry !  of  the  wrongs 

Which  thou  hast  done  this  land; 
O  King  !  repent  in  time,  for  know 

The  judgment  is  at  hand. 

"I  have  passed  forty  years  of  peace 
Beside  the  river  Blaise ; 


162  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  what  a  weight  of  woe  hast  thou 
Laid  oil  my  latter  days  ! 

"I  used  to  see  along  the  stream 
The  white  sail  gliding  down. 

That  wafted  food,  in  better  times. 
To  yonder  peaceful  town. 

"Henry!  I  never  now  behold 
The  white  sail  gliding  down ; 

Famine,  Disease,  and  Death,  and  Thou, 
Destroy  that  wretched  town. 

"  I  used  to  ])ear  the  traveller's  voice 

As  here  he  passed  along, 
Or  maiden  as  she  loitered  home 

Singing  her  even-song. 

"No  traveller's  voice  may  now  be  heard; 

In  fear  he  hastens  by : 
But  I  have,  heard  the  village  maid 

In  vain  for  succor  cry. 

"  I  used  to  see  the  youths  row  down. 
And  watch  the  dripping  oar. 

As  pleasantly  their  viol's  tones 
Came  softened  to  the  shore. 

"King  Henry,  many  a  blackened  corpse 

I  now  see  floating  down ! 
Thou  man  of  blood  1  repent  in  time. 

And  leave  this  leaguered  town.'* 


DREUX.  163 

"I  shall  go  on,"  King  Henry  cried, 

"And  conqner  this  good  land: 
Seest  thou  not,  hermit,  that  the  Lord 

Hath  given  it  to  my  hand  ?  " 

The  hermit  heard  King  Henry  speak. 

And  angrily  looked  down : 
His  face  was  gentle,  and  for  that 

More  solemn  was  his  frown. 

"What  if  no  miracle  from  Heaven 

The  murderer's  arm  control ; 
Think  you,  for  that,  the  weight  of  blood 

Lies  lighter  on  his  soul  ? 

"Thou  conqueror  King,  repent  in  time. 

Or  dread  the  coming  woe ! 
Ecr,  Henry,  thou  hast  heard  the  threat. 

And  soon  shalt  feel  the  blow  ! " 

King  Henry  forced  a  careless  smile. 

As  the  hermit  went  his  way ; 
But  Henry  soon  remembered  him 

Upon  his  dying  day. 

Robert  Southey, 


164  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Dunkirk  [Dunkerque). 

PEACE  AND  DUNKIRK. 

SPITE  of  Diitcli  friends  and  English  foes, 
Poor  Britain  shall  have  peace  at  last : 
Holland  got  towns,  and  we  got  blows; 
But  Dunkirk  's  ours,  we  '11  hold  it  fast. 
We  have  got  it  in  a  string, 
And  the  Whigs  may  all  go  swing, 
For  among  good  friends  I  love  to  be  plain; 
All  their  false  deluded  hopes 
Will,  or  ought  to  end  in  ropes  ; 
"But  the  Queen  shall  enjoy  her  own  again.'* 

Sunderland  's  run  out  of  his  wits, 
And  Dismal  double  dismal  looks ; 

Wharton  can  only  swear  by  fits. 
And  strutting  Hal  is  off  the  hooks; 
Old  Godolphin,  full  of  spleen. 
Made  false  moves,  and  lost  his  Queen; 

Harry  looked  fierce,  and  shook  his  ragged  mane: 
But  a  prince  of  high  renown 
Swore  he  'd  rather  lose  a  crown 

"Than  the  Queen  should  enjoy  her  own  again." 

Our  merchant-ships  may  cut  the  line, 

And  not  be  snapt  by  privateers, 
And  commoners  who  love  good  wine 

Will  drink  it  now  as  well  as  peers  : 


J)UKANCK,    THE    RIVER.  165 

Lauded  men  shall  liave  their  rent, 

Yet  our  stocks  rise  cent,  per  cent. 
The  Dutcli  from  hence  shall  no  more  millions  drain; 

We  '11  bring  on  us  no  more  debts, 

Nor  with  bankrupts  fill  gazettes; 
"  And  the  Queen  shall  enjoy  her  own  again." 

The  towns  we  took  ne'er  did  us  good : 

What  signified  the  French  to  beat? 
We  spent  our  money  and  our  blood. 

To  make  the  Dutchmen  proud  and  great : 
But  the  Lord  of  Oxford  swears, 
Dunkirk  never  shall  be  theirs. 
The  Dutcii-hearted  Whigs  may  rail  and  complain; 
But  true  Englishmen  may  fill 
A  good  health  to  General  Hill: 
"Eor  the  Queen  now  enjoys  her  own  again." 

Jonathan  Swift. 


Durance,  the  River 


SIR  REGINALD. 

'rp  IS  a  ^ny  summer  morn,  and  the  sunbeams  dance 
-L   On  the  glittering  waves  of  the  rapid  Durance, 
Where  Sir  Reginald's  castle  its  broad  shadow  throws 
O'er  the  bay  and  the  linden,  the  cypress  and  rose. 
And  in  that  rosy  bower  a  lady  so  bright 
Sits  telling  her  beads  for  her  own  absent  knight. 


166  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Whilst   lier  little   son   plays  round  tlie   fond    mother's 

knee, 
And  the  wandering  stock-dove  is  scared  by  his  glee, 

'T  is  a  calm  summer  eve,  and  the  moonbeams  dance 
On  the  glittering  waves  of  the  rapid  Durance, 
Where  Sir  Reginald's  castle  its  broad  shadow  throws 
O'er  the  bay  and  the  linden,  the  cypress  and  rose. 
But  the  pitiless  spoiler  is  master  there, 
For  gone  is  the  lady,  and  gone  the  young  heir; 
The  good  knight  hath  perished  beyond  the  salt  sea. 
And  they,  like  the  stock-dove,  poor  wanderers  be. 

Mary  Russell  Mitford. 


THE  DURANCE. 

CALL  to  mind  your  loveliest  dream. 
When  your  sleep  is  lulled  by  a  mountain  stream, 
When  your  ])illow  is  made  of  the  violet, 
And  over  your  head  are  the  branches  met 
Of  a  lime-tree  covered  with  bloom  and  bees. 
When  the  rose's  breath  is  on  the  breeze, 
Wlien  odors  and  light  on  your  eyehds  press 
With  summer's  delicious  idleness ; 
And  upon  you  some  shadowy  likeness  may  glance 
Of  the  faery  banks  of  the  bright  Durance; 
Just  where  at  first  its  current  flows 
Mid  willows  and  its  own  white  rose,  — 
Its  clear  and  early  tide,  or  ere 
A  shade,  save  trees,  its  waters  bear. 


DURANCE,    THE    RIVER.  16? 

The  sun,  like  an  Indian  king,  has  left 

To  that  fair  rirer  a  royal  gift 

Of  gold  and  purple ;  no  longer  shines 

His  broad  red  disk  o'er  that  forest  of  pines 

Sweeping  beneath  tlie  burning  sky 

Like  a  death-black  ocean,  whose  billows  lie 

Dreaming  dark  dreams  of  storm  in  their  sleep, 

When  the  wings  of  tlie  tempest  shall  over  them  sweep 

And  witli  its  towers  cleaving  the  red 

Of  the  sunset  clouds,  and  its  shadow  spread 

Like  a  cloak  before  it,  darkening  the  ranks 

Of  the  light  young  trees  on  the  river's  banks, 

And  ending  there,  as  the  waters  shone 

Too  bright  for  shadows  to  rest  upon, 

A  castle  stands ;  whose  windows  gleam 

Like  the  golden  flash  of  a  noon-lit  stream 

Seen  through  the  lily  and  water-flag's  screen : 

Just  so  shine  those  panes  through  the  ivy  green, 

A  curtain  to  shut  out  sun  and  air, 

Which  the  work  of  years  has  woven  there. 

But  not  in  the  lighted  pomp  of  the  west 

Looks  the  evening  its  loveliest : 

Enter  yon  turret,  and  round  yo<i  gaze 

On  what  the  twilight  east  displays : 

One  star,  pure,  clear,  as  if  it  shed 

The  dew  on  each  young  flower's  head ; 

And  like  a  beauty  of  southern  clime. 

Her  veil  thrown  back  for  the  first  time. 

Pale,  timid,  as  she  feared  to  own 

Her  claim  upon  the  midnight  throne. 

Shows  the  fair  moon  her  crescent  sign. 


168  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Beneatli,  in  many  a  serpentine, 

The  river  wanders;  chestnut-trees 

Spread  tlieir  old  boughs  o'er  cottages 

Where  the  low  roofs  and  porticos 

Are  covered  with  the  Provence  rose. 

And  there  are  vineyards;  none  might  view 

The  fruit  o'er  which  the  foliage  weaves ; 

And  olive  groves,  pale,  as  the  dew 

Crusted  its  silver  o'er  the  leaves. 

And  there  the  castle  garden  lay 

With  tints  in  beautiful  array ; 

Its  dark  green  walks,  its  fountains  falling, 

Its  tame  birds  to  each  other  calling; 

The  peacock  with  its  orient  rings. 

The  silver  ])lieasant's  gleauiing  wings; 

And  on  the  breeze  rich  odors  sent 

Sweet  messages,  as  if  they  meant 

To  rouse  each  sleeping  sense  to  all 

The  loveliness  of  evening's  fall. 

Letitia  Elizabeth  London. 


Elle,  the  River, 

WATERS  OF  ELLE. 

WATERS  of  Elle,  thy  limpid  streams  are  flowing, 
Smooth  and  untroubled  o'er  the  flowery  vale. 
Ou  thy  green  banks  once  more  the  wild  rose  blowing, 
Greets  the  young  Spring,  and  scents  the  passing  gale. 


ELLIANT.  169 

Here  't  was  at  eve,  near  yonder  tree  reposing, 
One  still  too  dear  first  breathed  his  vows  to  thee. 

"  Wear  this,"  he  cried,  his  guileful  love  disclosing, 
"  Near  to  thy  heart,  in  jneinory  of  me." 

Love's  cherished  gift,  the  rose  he  gave,  is  faded ; 

Love's  blighted  flower  can  never  bloom  again. 
Weep  for  thy  fault,  in  heart  and  mind  degraded; 

Weep,  if  thy  tears  can  wash  away  the  stain. 

Anonymous. 


Elliant, 


THE  PLAGUE  OF  ELLIANT. 

Thk  plague  which  the  ballad  commemorates  ravaged  Brittany  in  the 
sixth  century.  Tiie  Book  of  Llandatf  (in  Jesus  College,  Oxford;  contains 
an  account  of  this  plague,  in  an  al)ridgmeni  of  the  life  of  Saint  Gwenole, 
made  in  the  ninth  century  l)y  Guidestin,  abbot  of  the  convent.  In  this 
account  special  mention  is  made  of  the  ravages  of  ihe  plague  in  the  parish 
of  EUiant,  though  the  country  immediately  round  about  it  is  said  to  have 
been  preserved  from  the  scourge  by  the  prayers  of  a  saintly  hermit  named 
Rasian. 


^TVC 


There  lives  a  bard,  a  holy  man,  — 
His  name  is  Father  llasian. 

Oil  Faoiiet  his  best  he  laid  : 

"  Lat  every  month  a  mass  be  said, 

And  bells  be  rung,  and  prayers  be  read. 


170  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

In  Elliant  the  plague  is  o'er, 

But  not  till  it  had  raged  full  sore  : 

It  slew  seven  thousand  and  fivescore. 

Death  unto  Elliant  hath  gone  down, 
No  living  soul  is  in  the  town,  — 
No  living  soul  but  two  alone. 

A  crone  of  sixty  years  is  one, 
The  other  is  her  only  son. 

"The  Plague,"  quoth  she,  "is  on  our  door-sill; 
'T  will  enter  if  it  be  God's  will ; 
But  till  it  enter  bide  we  still." 

Through  Elliant' s  streets  who  wills  to  go, 
Everywhere  will  find  grass  to  mow,  — 

Everywhere,  save  in  two  wheel-ruts  bare. 
Where  the  wheels  of  the  dead-cart  wont  to  fare. 

His  heart  were  flint  that  had  not  wept, 
Through  Elliant's  grass-grown  streets  who  stept. 

To  see  eighteen  carts,  each  with  its  load,  — 
Eighteen  at  the  graveyard,  eighteen  on  the  road. 

Nine  children  of  one  house  there  were 
Whom  one  dead-cart  to  the  grave  did  bear; 
Their  mother  'twixt  the  shafts  did  fare. 

The  father,  whistling,  walked  behind. 
With  a  careless  step  and  a  mazy  mind. 


.      ERMEXONVILLE.  ^  171 

The  motlier  slirieked  and  called  on  God, 
Crushed,  soul  and  body,  beneath  her  load. 

"God,  help  me  bury  my  children  nine, 

And  I  vow  thee  a  cord  of  the  wax  so  fine,  — ■ 

"A  cord  of  the  wax  so  long  and  fine. 

To  go  thrice  round  the  church  and  thrice  round  the 

shrine. 

"Nine  sons  I  had;   I  bare  them  all; 

Now  Death  has  ta'en  them,  great  and  small, — 

"  Hath  ta'en  them  all  from  my  own  door-stone ; 
None  left,  e'en  to  give  me  to  drink,  —  not  one !  " 

The  churchyard  to  the  walls  brims  o'er. 
The  church  is  full  to  the  steps  of  the  door: 
They  must  bless  fields,  if  they  'd  bury  more. 

There  grows  an  oak  by  the  churchyard  wall, 
From  the  top  bough  hangs  a  wl\ite  grave  pall,  — 
The  plague  hath  taken  one  and  all! 

Ballads  of  Brittany.     Tr.  Tom  Taylor. 


Ermenonville, 

FOR  THE  CENOTAPH  AT  ERMENONVILLE. 

STRANGER !   the  man  of  nature  lies  not  here 
Enshrined  far  distant  by  the  scoff'er's  side 
His  relics  rest,  there  by  the  giddy  throng 


172  POEMS    or    PLACES. 

With  blind  idolatry  alike  revered. 
Wiselier  directed  have  thy  pilgrim  feet 
Explored  the  scenes  of  Ermenonville.     Rousseau 
Loved  these  calm  haunts  of  solitude  and  peace; 
Here  he  has  heard  the  murmurs  of  the  lake. 
And  the  soft  rustling  of  the  poplar  grove, 
When  o'er  its  bending  boughs  the  passing  wind 
Swept  a  gray  shade.     Here,  if  thy  breast  be  full, 
If  in  thine  eye  the  tear  devout  should  gush, 
His  spirit  shall  behold  thee,  to  thine  home 
From  hence  returning,  purified  of  heart. 

Robert  Souihey. 


Finistere. 

FINISTERE. 

HAIL  !    Ocean-region  of  the  Keltic  West, 
Where  conquering  Rome  her  Finis  Terrse  found. 
Stayed  by  the  haughty  waves  that  gird  thy  breast ; 
And  where  the  untravelled  Breton  still  doth  bound 
His  dear  familiar  world.     I  look  around 
With  joyful  heart  from  each  far-gazing  height, 
A.nd  fondly  wake  the  visions  Fame  hath  crowned, 
Which  haunt  thy  winding  shores  with  history  bright. 
Or  bathed  in  rainbow  gleams  of  legendary  light. 

O  breezy  Headland  of  Saint-Mathieu  !    thou 
Wliose  feet  are  farthest  in  blue  ocean  set. 


FONTAINEBLEAU.  173 

Whose  eclioing  voice  is  wildest,  whose  old  brow, 
With  lightning  smitten  and  with  salt  spray  wet. 
Looks  least  on  earthly  scenes  ;    I  love  thee  yet 
Most  of  the  Armoric  Capes,  and  come  to  blend 
Life's  golden  hours  of  rest  —  too  rarely  met  — 
With  shadows  of  thy  buried  past,  and  bend 
Spiritual  eyes  afar  where  unveiled  vistas  tend. 

Locmaze-Pen-ar-Bed  !    secluded  cell 
On  the  world's  rim  remote,  but  with  the  name 
Of  the  whole  world's  Apostle  hallowed;   well 
I  love  thee  now,  when  all  the  west  is  flame 
Before  thee,  and  behind,  the  city's  fame 
Betrayed  not  in  the  deepening  hush  of  eve; 
Though,  ringed  by  seas  no  summer  calms  can  tame. 
Deep-pulsing,  Ouessant  and  her  islets  grieve. 
And  to  lone  Sizun's  cliffs  the  gathering  storm-clouds 
cleave. 
***** 

James  Kenward. 


Fontainebleau, 

FONTAINEBLEAU. 

AS  I  walked  in  the  grass-green  alleys 
Where  fringes  of  beech-trees  grow, 
I  thought  of  the  close-cut  lindens. 
And  the  fishes  of  Fontaiuebleau, 
The  lazy  fins  of  the  old  gray  carp. 


174  POEMS    or    PLACES. 

Almost  too  idle  to  eat  their  bread, 
And  the  turreted  roofs,  so  fine  and  sharp. 

Cutting  into  the  blue  sky  overhead. 
The  suites  of  rooms  both  large  and  small. 
And  the  lofty  gloom  of  St.  Louis  Hall, 
Mirrored  again  in  the  shining  floor; 
And  the  thick  walls  pierced  for  the  crusted  door. 
With  traceried  panels  and  ponderous  lock, 
Wiiich  opens  heavily,  shuts  with  shock. 
If  the  hand  unwarily  lets  it  fall. 

The  great  square  courts  are  still  as  the  grave. 

Once  so  joyous  with  hunting  horn. 
When  the  princely  hunter,  eager  and  brave, 

Rode  to  the  chase  at  the  first  of  morn. 
The  grand  old  courts  of  Francis  the  First, 
Neither  the  ugliest  nor  the  worst 
Of  that  kingly  race  who  hunted  the  deer 
All  day  long  in  the  forest  wide, 
Which  stretches  for  miles  on  every  side. 
Music  and  feasting  closed  the  day 
When  the  king  was  tired  with  his  hunting  play. 
And  had  chased  the  deer  to  his  heart's  desire, 
WHiere  the  sunshine  glows,  like  soft  green  fire. 
Under  the  trees  in  the  month  of  May. 

We  were  there  in  the  month  of  May, 

When  the  quaint  inn  garden  was  filled  with  flowers. 
Roses  and  lilies  are  passed  away. 

And  I  write  in  the  dark  December  hours. 
But  I  will  not  believe  (and  a  woman,  you  know. 


FONTAINEBLEAU.  175 

Will  never  believe  against  her  will !) 
That  there  ever  is  snow  at  Foutainebleau. 

I  fancied  then,  I  will  hold  to  it  still, 
That  place  of  the  ancient  kings  doth  wear 
A  sort  of  enchanted  fairy-tale  air; 
And  that  roses  blossom  the  whole  year  through, 
And  soft  green  sunshine  glows  on  the  dew ; 
That  the  breath  of  the  forest  is  soft  and  sweet; 
That  dulcimers  play  in  the  open  street. 
And  the  people  actually  waltz  to  the  sound, 
Like  the  queer  little  folks  that  turn  round  and  round 
In  the  travelling  organs  you  chance  to  meet. 

At  Foutainebleau,  in  the  month  of  May, 
You  just  might  fancy  some  amiable  gnome 

Or  intelligent  fairy  had  whisked  you  away 
A  thousand  miles  from  your  northern  home, 
And  planted  you  safe  on  the  hills  near  Rome. 

It  only  wanted  the  olive-trees, 

And  the  purple  breadth  of  the  southern  seas, — 

Only  a  few  little  things  of  the  kind, 

To  make  you  doubly  sure  in  your  mind. 

For  there  were  the  roses  and  there  the  skies. 

And  the  wonderful  brightness  to  fill  your  eyes. 

And  the  people  singing  and  dancing  away. 

As  if  constantly  making  a  scene  in  a  play. 

And  there  was  the  moon  when  the  sun  went  down. 

And  in  silver  and  black  she  clotlied  the  town, 

As  if  half  masked  for  a  holiday  ! 

Then  the  Royal  Chapel  of  Foutainebleau 

Is  Roman  quite  in  its  taste,  you  know ; 


176  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Exceedingly  white,  and  gold,  and  red, 
Willi  a  legion  of  cherubim  overhead. 
But  there  the  innermost  heart  is  moved. 

Not  by  sculptured  or  painted  frieze, 
But  by  thoughts  of  a  life  perfumed  with  prayer, 
Of  a  saintly  woman  who  worshipped  there. 
The  wife  of  Louis  the  well-beloved. 

And  mother  of  Madame  Louise. 

And  then  the  Forest!     What  pen  shall  paint 

The  gates  of  brickwork,  solid  and  quaint. 

Which  opened  on  it  from  every  side  ; 

And  the  sweeping  circles  whose  vistas  wide 

Narrow  away  to  a  point  of  space. 

Like  the  rays  of  a  star  from  its  central  place. 

Wherever  you  turn  it  is  just  the  same. 

Whither  you  go  or  whence  you  came. 

To  the  right,  to  the  left,  behind,  before. 

An  ocean  of  trees  for  six  leagues  and  more. 

Erom  the  brow  of  the  rocks  (all  purple  and  green, 

Or  damply  shining  with  silver  sheen) 

You  see  what  looks  like  a  mystical  floor, 

A  glorious  level  of  green  and  gray, 

Till  the  uttermost  distance  melts  away. 

Where  satyrs  and  fauns  might  nimbly  play. 

Swinging  along  by  the  tops  of  the  trees. 

Like  dolphins  out  on  the  crested  seas. 

And  where  the  Forest  is  melting  away. 

And  drops  to  the  brink  of  the  winding  Seine, 
A  vine-clad  village,  open  and  gay. 


FONTAINEBLEAU.  177 

Tempted  our  feet,  —  but  our  quest  was  vain. 
We  eagerly  knocked,  —  but  polite  despair 
Opened  the  gate  of  the  porte-cochere. 
And  a  chorus  of  quadruped,  white  and  brown, 
Barked  affirmative,  "  Gone  to  town," 
With  affable  bursts  of  French  bow-wow; 
(As  part  of  the  family  they  knew  how !) 
So  we  gazed  at  the  house  through  that  porte-cochere, 
With  its  tall  new  tower  so  straight  and  fair. 
Its  mouldings  of  brickwork  quaint  and  free. 
And  under  the  date  a  firm  "R.  B." 

0  royal  Forest  of  Fontainebleau, 

Be  kind,  be  kind  to  this  artist  dear  ; 
And  if  (which  I  don't  believe  !)  you  've  snow, 

Be  silver-fretted,  be  crystal  clear. 
Be  tender,  O  Spring,  to  her  gentle  kine. 
To  her  lambs  with  coats  so  close,  and  fine. 
To  the  king  of  the  herd,  with  horned  brow, 
I'd  her  rough-haired  dogs,  with  their  wise  bow-wow ; 
Nurture  them,  comfort  them,  give  your  best 
To  the  family  friends  of  your  famous  guest. 
Thou,  rose-clad  Summer,  temper  your  beams 
With  leaping  fountains  an'd  gurgling  streams. 
Autumn,  rij)en  your  largest  grapes, 
Of  richest  color  and  moulded  shapes. 
Rain,  fall  soft  on  her  garden  bower ; 
Sunshine,  melt  on  the  bricks  of  her  tower ; 
Nature  and  Art,  alike  bestow 
Blessing  and  beauty  on  Fontainebleau ! 

Bessie  Rayner  Parkes, 


178  POEMS   OF    PLACES. 


IN  THE  FOREST  OF  FONTAINEBLEAU. 

THE  lights  and  shadows  of  long  ago 
In  the  grand  old  Forest  of  Tontainebleau 
Go  with  me  still  wherever  I  go. 

I  range  my  pictures  around  my  room, 

Won  from  the  forest's  light  and  gloom  ; 

Not  yet  shall  they  sink  to  an  auction's  doom. 

They  wake  me  again  to  the  painter's  moods; 
They  take  me  back  to  the  wonderful  woods. 
The  wild,  dream-haunted  solitudes. 

They  come  as  Memory  waves  her  wand ; 

And  I  think  of  the  days  when  with  busy  hand 

I  painted  alone  in  the  forest  grand. 

I  see  the  old  gnarled  oak-trees  spread 
Their  boughs  and  foliage  over  my  head. 
About  the  mossy  rocks  I  tread. 

Under  the  beeches  of  Fontainebleau, 

In  the  green  dim  dells  of  the  Bas-Breau, 

Mid  ferns  and  laurel-tufts  I  go ; 

Or  up  on  the  hills,  while  the  woods  beneath 
Circle  me  round  like  a  giant-wreath. 
Plunge  knee-deep  in  the  purple  heath; 


FONTAINEBLEAU.  179 

Then  down  to  a  patch  of  furzy  sand, 
Where  the  white  umbrella  and  easel  stand. 
And  the  rocks  lie  picturesque  and  grand. 

The  mellow  autumn  with  fold  on  fold 

Has  dressed  the  woods  with  a  bronzy  gold. 

And  scarlet  scarfs  of  a  wealth  untold. 

The  tall  gray  spotted  beeches  rise 

And  seem  to  touch  the  unclouded  skies, 

And  round  their  tops  with  clamorous  cries 

The  rooks  are  wheeling  to  and  fro ; 

And  down  on  the  brown  leaf-matting  below 

The  lights  and  the  shadows  come  aud  go. 

0  calm,  deep  days,  when  labor  moved 
With  wings  of  joy  to  the  tasks  beloved. 
And  art  its  own  best  guerdon  proved ! 

For  such  it  was,  when  long  ago 

1  sat  in  my  leafy  studio 

In  the  dear  old  Forest  of  Fontainebleau. 

Christopher  Pearse  Crunch. 

THE  BELLS  OF  FONTAINEBLEAU. 

NAPOLEON  in  the  gray  surtout 
That  kings  had  learned  to  dread. 
With  close-clenched  hands  behind  his  back 
And  heavy  bended  head. 


180  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Climbed  slowly  (lost  in  battle  plans) 

A  hill  near  Fontaineblean, 
One,  two,  three,  four,  the  village  chimes 

Came  to  him  from  below. 

The  marshals,  glittering  with  gold. 

Paced  laugliingly  along, 
Nor  hushed  the  scandal  and  the  jest. 

Or  scrap  of  opera  song ; 
The  Emperor  stood  silent  there, 

A  monarch  turned  to  stone, 
Nor  smiled,  nor  moved,  —  where  great  men  stand 

The  spot  becomes  a  throne. 

Below,  the  reapers,  singing,  toiled 

With  sickles  (not  with  swords), 
Or  down  in  clusters  round  the  sheaves 

Lay  revelling  like  lords  ; 
The  soldiers  pointed  to  the  slopes 

That  bound  the  golden  plain. 
And  almost  wished  that  France  were  lost, 

To  win  it  o'er  again. 

The  gray  man  stood,  one  foot  outstretched. 

As  if  upon  a  foe. 
He  cared  not  for  the  happy  sight. 

The  plenty  spread  below. 
Although  the  bells  shook  music  down 

From  yonder  village  tower,  — 
And  hark  !  the  royal  voice  of  Time 

Exulting  in  his  power. 


FONTENAY.  181 

At  last  be  spoke,  and  slowly  turned 

(A  moisture  in  his  eyes),  — 
Massena  gave  a  shrug  that  showed 

A  cynical  surprise  : 
"Long  years  ago,  at  Malraaison, 

When  all  unknown  of  men, 
I  heard  just  such  a  laughing  peal. 

And  I  was  happy  then." 

He  turned  upon  his  heel,  and  then 

Sat  down  upon  the  hill. 
Tracing  upon  the  level  sand 

With  sword-sheath  (O,  that  will !) 
The  star  redoubt,  the  diamond  fort, 

The  battle  lines  again  :  — 

A  month  from  that  he  won  the  day 

Upon  Marengo's  plain. 

Walter  Thornbury. 


Fontenay, 

FONTENAY. 

AMIABLE  solitude, 

Sojourn  of  silence  and  of  peace ! 
Asylum  where  forever  cease 
All  tumult  and  inquietude  ! 


0 


I,  who  have  chanted  many  a  time 
To  tender  accents  of  my  lyre 


182  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

All-  that  one  suffers  from  the  fire 
Of  love  and  beauty  iu  its  prime,  — 

Shall  I,  whose  gratitude  requites 
All  blessing  I  from  thee  receive,  — 
Shall  I,  unsung,  in  silence  leave 
Thy  benefactions  and  delights  ? 

Thou  bringest  back  my  youthful  dream: 
Calmest  my  agitated  breast. 
And  of  my  idleness  and  rest 
Makest  a  happiness  extreme. 

Amid  these  hamlets  and  these  woods 
Again  do  I  begin  to  live, 
And  to  the  winds  all  memory  give 
Of  sorrows  and  solicitudes. 


Wliat  smiling  pictures  and  serene 
Each  day  reveals  to  sight  and  sense, 
Of  treasures  with  which  Providence 
Embellishes  this  rural  scene ! 

How  sweet  it  is  in  yonder  glade 
To  see,  when  noonday  burns  the  plain. 
The  flocks  around  the  shepherd  swain 
Reposing  in  the  elm-tree's  shade  ! 

To  liear  at  eve  our  flageolets 
Answered  by  all  the  hills  around,. 


FONTENAY.  183 

And  all  the  villages  resound 

"With  bautbois  and  with  canzonets ! 

Alas  !  these  peaceful  days,  perforce, 
With  too  great  swiftness  onward  press  ; 
My  indolence  and  idleness 
Are  powerless  to  suspend  their  course. 

Old  age  comes  stealing  on  apace  ; 
And  cruel  Death  shall  soon  or  late 
Execute  the  decree  of  fate 
That  gives  me  to  him  without  grace. 

0  Eontenay  !  forever  dear ! 
Where  first  I  saw  the  light  of  day, 

1  soon  from  life  shall  steal  away 
To  sleep  with  my  forefathers  here. 

Ye  Muses,  that  have  nourished  me 
In  this  delightful  spot  of  earth ; 
Beautiful  trees,  that  saw  my  birth, 
Erelong  ye  too  my  death  shall  see ! 

Meanwhile  let  me  in  patience  wait 
Beneath  thy  shadowy  woods,  nor  grieve 
That  I  so  soon  their  shade  must  leave 
For  that  dark  manor  desolate, 

'V^Tiither  not  one  shall  follow  me 
Of  all  these  trees  that  my  own  hand 
Hath  planted,  and  for  pastime  planned. 
Saving  alone  the  cypress-tree! 

GuilJaume  Anfrye  de  Chaulieu.     Tr.  Anon. 


184  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Fontevrault, 

C(EUR  DE  LION  AT  THE  BIER  OF  HIS  FATHER. 

TORCHES  were  blazing  clear, 
Hynius  pealing  deep  and  slow, 
Where  a  king  lay  stately  on  bis  bier 

In  the  church  of  Fontevraud. 
Banners  of  battle  o'er  him  hung. 
And  warriors  slept  beneath, 
And  light,  as  noon's  broad  light,  was  flung 
On  the  settled  face  of  death. 

On  the  settled  face  of  death 

A  strong  and  ruddy  glare; 
Though  dimmed  at  times  by  the  censer's  breath. 

Yet  it  fell  still  brightest  there  : 
As  if  each  deeply  furrowed  trace 

Of  earthly  years  to  show,  — 
Alas!  that  sceptred  mortal's  race 

Had  surely  closed  in  woe! 

The  marble  floor  was  swept 

By  many  a  long  dark  stole. 
As  the  kneeling  priests  round  him  that  slept 

Sang  mas3  for  the  parted  soul; 
And  solemn  were  the  strains  they  poured 

Through  the  stillness  of  the  night. 
With  the  cross  above,  and  the  crown  and-  sword. 

And  the  silent  king  in  sight. 


FONTEVRAULT.  18? 

There  was  heard  a  heavy  claug 

As  of  steel-girt  men  the  tread, 
And  the  tombs  and  the  hollow  pavement  rang 

With  a  sounding  thrill  of  dread; 
And  the  holy  chant  was  hushed  awhile. 

As,  by  the  torch's  flame, 
A  gleam  of  arms,  up  the  sweeping  aisle, 

With  a  mail-clad  leader  came. 

He  came  with  a  haughty  look, 

An  eagle  glance  and  clear. 
But  his  proud  heart  through  its  breastplate  shook. 

When  lie  stood  beside  the  bier! 
He  stood  there  still  with  a  drooping  brow. 

And  clasped  hands  o'er  it  raised  ; 
For  his  father  lay  before  him  low ;  — 

It  was  Coeur  de  Lion  gazed ! 

And  silently  he  strove 

With  the  workings  of  his  breast; 
But  there  's  more  in  late-repentant  love 

Than  steel  can  keep  suppressed ! 
And  his  tears  brake  forth,  at  last,  like  rain;  — 

Men  held  their  breath  in  awe. 
For  his  face  was  seen  by  his  warrior-train. 

And  he  recked  not  that  they  saw. 

He  looked  upon  the  dead. 

And  sorrow  seemed  to  lie, 

A  weight  of  sorrow,  even  like  lead, 

Pale  on  the  fast-shut  eye. 


18fi  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

He  stooped,  and  kissed  tlie  frozen  cheek, 
And  the  heavy  hand  of  clay, 

Till  bursting  words,  yet  all  too  weak. 
Gave  his  soul's  passion  way. 

"O  father!  is  it  vain. 

This  late  remorse  and  deep? 
Speak  to  me,  father,  once  again. 

I  weep,  —  behold,  I  weep  ! 
Alas  !  my  guilty  pride  and  ire ! 

Were  but  this  work  undone ! 
I  would  give  England's  crown,  my  sire. 

To  hear  thee  bless  thy  son, 

"  Speak  to  me !  mighty  grief 

Ere  now  the  dust  hath  stirred ! 
Hear  me,  but  hear  me!  father,  chief! 

My  king!  I  must  be  heard. 
Hushed,  hushed  ;  —  how  is  it  that  I  call. 

And  that  thou  answerest  not? 
When  was  it  thus  ?  —  woe,  woe  for  all 

The  love  my  soul  forgot! 

"Thy  silver  hairs  I  see. 

So  still,  so  sadly  bright! 
And,  father!  father!  but  for  me 

They  had  not  been  so  white! 
I  bore  thee  down,  high  heart !  at  last. 

No  longer  couldst  thou  strive ; 
0  for  one  moment  of  the  past 

To  kneel  and  say,  —  '  Forgive  ! ' 


GASTIXE.  187 

*'  Thou  wert  the  noblest  king 

On  royal  throne  e'er  seen ; 
And  thou  didst  wear,  in  knightly  ring. 

Of  all  the  stateliest  niieu ; 
And  thou  didst  prove,  where  spears  are  proved 

In  war,  the  bravest  heart,  — 
O,  ever  the  renowned  and  loved 

Thou  wert ;  —  and  there  thou  art ! 

"Thou,  that  my  boyhood's  guide 

Didst  take  fond  joy  to  be !  — 
The  times  I  've  sported  by  thy  side, 

And  climbed  the  parent-knee ! 
And  there  before  the  blessed  shrine, 

My  sire !  I  see  thee  lie ; 
How  will  that  still,  sad  face  of  thine 

Look  on  me  till  I  die ! " 

Felicia  Hemans. 


Oastine, 

TO  THE  FOREST  OF  GASTINE. 

STRETCHED  in  thy  shadows  I  rehearse, 
Gastine,  tliy  solitudes. 
Even  as  the  Grecians  in  their  verse 
The  Erymantliian  woods. 


For  I,  alas !    cannot  conceal 
From  any  future  race 


188  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  pleasure,  the  delight,  I  feel 
In  thy  green  dwelling-place. 

Thou  who  beneath  thy  sheltering  bowers 

Dost  make  me  visions  see; 
Thou  who  dost  cause  that  at  all  hours 

The  Muses  answer  me ; 

Thou  who  from  each  importunate  care 

Dost  free  me  with  a  look, 
When  lost  I  roam  I  know  not  where 

Conversing  with  a  book  ! 

Forever  may  thy  thickets  hold 

The  amorous  brigade 
Of  Satyrs  and  of  Sylvans  bold. 

That  make  the  Nymphs  afraid  ; 

In  thee  the  Muses  evermore 

Their  habitation  claim, 
And  never  may  thy  woods  deplore 

The  sacrilegious  flame. 

Flerre  de  Ronsard.     Tr.  Anon. 


GAUBE,    THE    LAKE.  189 


Gaube,    the   Lake. 

THE  TRAGEDY  OF  THE  LAC  DE  GAUBE,  IN  THE 
PYRENEES. 

THE  marriage  blessing  on  their  brows, 
Across  the  Cliannel  seas 
And  lands  of  gay  Garonne,  they  reach 
The  pleasant  Pyrenees,  — 
He  into  boyhood  born  again, 
A  son  of  joy  and  life; 
And  slie  a  happy  English  girl, 
A  happier  English  wife. 

They  loiter  not  where  Argeles, 

The  chestnut-crested  plain. 

Unfolds  its  robe  of  green  and  gold 

In  pasture,  grape,  and  grain  ; 

But  on  and  up,  where  Nature's  heart 

Beats  strong  amid  the  hills, 

They  pause,  contented  with  the  wealth 

That  either  bosom  fills. 

There  is  a  lake,  a  small  round  lake, 
High  on  the  mountain's  breast. 
The  child  of  rains  and  melted  snows. 
The  torrent's  summer  rest,  — 
A  mirror  where  the  veteran  rocks 
May  glass  their  peaks  and  scars, 
A  nether  sky  where  breezes  break 
The  sunlicrht  into  stars. 


190  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

O,  gayly  slione  that  little  lake, 

And  Nature,  sternly  fair. 

Put  on  a  sparkling  countenance 

To  greet  that  merry  pair; 

How  light  from  stone  to  stone  they  leapt, 

How  trippingly  they  ran  ; 

To  scale  the  rock  and  gain  the  marge 

Was  all  a  moment's  span  ! 

"  See,  dearest,  this  primeval  boat, 
So  quaint  and  rough,  I  deem 
Just  such  an  one  did  Charon  ply 
Across  the  Stygian  stream  : 
Step  in,  —  I  will  your  Charon  be, 
And  you  a  Spirit  bold,  — 
I  was  a  famous  rower  once 
In  college  days  of  old. 

"  The  clumsy  oar !    the  laggard  boat ! 

HoAv  slow  we  move  along,  — 

The  work  is  harder  than  I  ihought,  — 

A  song,  my  love,  a  song  ! " 

Then,  standing  up,  she  carolled  out 

So  blithe  and  sweet  a  strain 

That  tlie  long-silent  cliffs  were  glad 

To  peal  it  back  again. 

He,  tranced  in  joy,  the  oar  laid  down. 
And  rose  in  careless  pride. 
And  swayed  in  cadence  to  Ihe  song 
The  boat  from  side  to  side  : 


GAUBE,    THE    LAKE.  191 

Then  clasping  hand  in  loving  hand, 
They  danced  a  childish  round, 
And  felt  as  safe  in  that  mid-lake 
As  on  the  firmest  ground. 

One  poise  too  much  !  —  He  headlong  fell,  — 

She,  stretchhig  out  to  save 

A  feeble  arm,  was  borne  adown 

Within  that  glittering  grave;  — 

One  moment,  and  the  gush  went  forth 

Of  music-mingled  laughter,  — 

The  struggling  splasli  and  deatlily  shriek 

Were  there  the  instant  after. 

Her  weaker  head  above  the  flood. 

That  quick  engulfed  the  strong, 

Like  some  enchanted  water-flower. 

Waved  pitifully  long  :  — • 

Long  seemed  the  low  and  lonely  wail 

Athwart  the  tide  to  fade; 

Alas !   that  there  were  some  to  hear. 

But  never  one  to  aid. 

Yet  not  alas  !    if  Heaven  revered 

The  freshly  spoken  vow. 

And  willed  that  what  was  then  made  one 

Should  not  be  sundered  now, — 

If  she  was  spared,  by  that  sharp  stroke. 

Love's  most  unnatural  doom. 

The  future  lorn  and  unconsoled. 

The  unavoided  tomb  ! 


POEMS    or    PLACES. 

But  weep,  ye  very  rocks !    for  those 
Who,  on  their  native  sliore. 
Await  the  letters  of  dear  news 
That  shall  arrive  no  more ; 
One  letter  from  a  stranger  hand, — 
Eew  words  are  all  the  need ; 
And  then  the  funeral  of  the  heart, 
Tlie  course  of  useless  speed ! 

The  presence  of  the  cold  dead  wood. 
The  single  mark  and  sign 
Of  her  so  loved  and  beautiful, 
That  handiwork  divine  ! 
The  weary  search  for  his  fine  form 
That  in  tlie  depth  would  linger. 
And  late  success,  —  O,  leave  the  ring 
Upon  that  faithful  finger  ! 

And  if  in  life  there  he  the  seed 

Of  real  enduring  being. 

If  love  and  truth  be  not  decreed 

To  perish  unforesceiiig, 

This  youth  tlie  seal  of  death  has  stamped 

Now  time  can  wither  never, 

This  hope  that  sorrow  might  have  damped 

Is  frcsli  and  strong  forever.* 

Lord  Houghton. 

1  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Pattison  were  drowned  in  tlie  year  1831. 


GEVAUDUN.  193 


Oevaudun, 

CLOTILDE. 

IN  Gevaiiduii  were  brothers  three, 
They  had  one  sister  dear; 
The  cruel  Baron  her  lord  must  be, 
And  the  fellest  and  fiercest  knight  is  he 
In  the  country  far  or  near. 

He  beat  that  lovely  lady  sore 

With  a  staff  of  the  apple  green, 
Till  her  blood  flowed  down  on  the  castle  floor. 
And  from  head  to  foot  the  crimson  gore 

On  her  milk-white  robe  was  seen. 

He  filled  a  cup  with  her  blood  so  red, 

A  cup  of  silver  fine: 
"It  was  for  thee  this  wine  was  shed; 

Come,  drink  it,  lady  mine !  " 

Her  robe  was  stained  with  tlie  ruby  tide 
Once  pure  as  the  fleece  so  white  ; 

And  she  hied  her  to  the  river-side 
To  wash  in  tlie  waters  bright. 

While  there  she  stood  three  knights  so  gay 

Came  riding  bold  and  free. 
"Ho!    tell  us,  young  serving-maiden,  pray. 

Where  yon  castle's  lady  may  be  ? " 


194  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

*'  Alas !    no  serviiig-maid  am  1, 

But  the  lady  of  yonder  castle  high  !  " 

"O   sister,  sister,  truly  tell 

Who  did  this  wrong  to  thee  ?  " 

"Dear  brothers,  it  was  the  husband  fell 

To  whom  you  married  me." 

***** 
The  brothers  spurred  their  steeds  in  haste 

And  the  castle  soon  they  gained, 
Trom  chamber  to  chamber  they  swiftly  passed, 
Nor  paused  till  they  reached  the  tower  at  last 

Where  the  felon  knight  remained : 

They  drew  their  swords  so  sharp  and  bright. 
They  thought  on  their  sister  sweet ; 

They  struck  together  the  felon  knight. 
And  his  head  rolled  at  their  feet ! 

Anon.     Tr.  Louisa  Stuart  Costello. 


Harfleur. 

HENRY  THE  FIFTH  BEFORE  HARFLEUR. 

ONCE  more  unto  the  breach,  dear  friends,  once  more 
Or  close  the  wall  up  with  our  English  dead ! 
In  j)eace,  tliere  *s  nolhing  so  becomes  a  man 
As  modest  stiHness,  and  humility : 
But  when  the  blast  of  war  blows  in  our  ears. 


HARFLEUR.  195 

Then  imitate  the  action  of  the  tiger ; 
Stiffen  the  sinews,  summon  up  the  blood, 
Disguise  fair  nature  with  liard-favour'd  rage : 
Then  lend  the  eye  a  terrible  aspect; 
Let  it  pry  through  the  portage  of  the  head. 
Like  the  brass  cannon ;  let  the  brow  o'erwhelm  it. 
As  fearfully  as  doth  a  galled  rock 
O'erhang  and  jutty  his  confounded  base, 
Swill'd  with  the  wild  and  wasteful  ocean. 
Now  set  the  teeth,  and  stretch  the  nostril  wide ; 
Hold  hard  the  breath,  and  bend  up  every  spirit 
To  his  full  height !  —  On,  on,  you  noblest  English, 
Whose  blood  is  fet  from  fathers  of  war-proof! 
Fathers,  that,  like  so  many  Alexanders, 
Have,  in  these  parts,  from  morn  till  even  fought. 
And  sheath'd  their  swords  for  lack  of  argument. 
Dishonour  not  your  mothers  ;  now  attest. 
That  those  whom  you  call'd  fathers,  did  beget  you! 
Be  copy  now  to  men  of  grosser  blood. 
And  teach  them   how  to  war !  —  And  you,  good  yeo- 
men. 
Whose  limbs  were  made  in  England,  show  us  here 
The  mettle  of  your  pasture  ;  let  us  swear 
That  you  are  worth  your  breeding :  which  I  doubt  not ; 
Eor  there  is  none  of  you  so  mean  and  base. 
That  hath  not  noble  lustre  in  your  eyes. 
I  see  you  stand  like  greyhounds  in  the  slips. 
Straining  upon  the  start.     The  game  's  afoot ; 
Follow  your  spirit :  and,  upon  this  charge, 
Cry,  God  for  Harry !  England !  and  Saint  George ! 

William  Shakespeare. 


196  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Hautefort. 

BERTRAND  DE  BORN. 

THE  beautiful  spring  delights  me  well. 
When  flowers  and  leaves  are  growing 
And  it  pleases  my  heart  to  hear  the  swell 
Of  the  birds'  sweet  chorus  flowing 
In  the  echoing  wood; 
And  I  love  to  see,  all  scattered  around, 
Pavilions,  tents,  on  the  martial  ground ; 

And  my  spirit  finds  it  good 
To  see,  on  the  level  plains  beyond. 
Gay  knights  and  steeds  caparisoned. 

It  pleases  me  when  the  lancers  bold 

Set  men  and  armies  flying ; 
And  it  pleases  me,  too,  to  hear  around 

The  voice  of  the  soldiers  crying; 
And  joy  is  mine 
When  the  castles  strong,  besieged,  shake, 
And  walls  uprooted  totter  and  crack. 
And  I  see  the  foemen  join, 
On  the  moated  shore  all  compassed  round 
With  the  palisade  and  guarded  mound. 

Lances,  and  swords,  and  stained  helms, 

And  shields,  dismantled  and  broken. 
On  the  verge  of  the  bloody  battle-scene, 


HAUTE FORT.  197 

The  field  of  wratli  betoken  ; 

And  the  vassals  are  there, 
And  there  %  the  steeds  of  the  dying  and  dead; 
And  where  the  mingled  strife  is  spread. 

The  noblest  warrior's  care 
Is  to  cleave  the  foeman's  limbs  and   head,  — 
The  conqueror  less  of  the  living  than  dead. 

I  tell  you  that  nothing  my  soul  can  cheer, 

Or  banqueting  or  reposing, 
Like  the  onset-cry  of  "  Charge  them  !  "  rung 

From  each  side,  as  in  battle  closing, 
Where  the  horses  neigh, 
And  the  call  to  "  Aid  !  "  is  eclioing  loud  ; 
And  there  on  the  earth  the  lowly  and  proud 

In  the  fosse  togetlier  lie  ; 
And  yonder  is  piled  the  mangled  heap 
Of  the  brave  that  scaled  the  trench's  steep. 

Barons,  your  castles  in  safety  place. 

Your  cities  and  villages  too, 
Before  ye  haste  to  the  battle-scene ! 

And,  Papiol,  quickly  go, 
And  tell  the  Lord  of  "  Oc  and  No  !  " 
That  peace  already  too  long  hath  been  ! 

Bertrand  de  Born.     Tr.  Edgar  Taylor. 


198  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Hautvillers, 

ELEGY  WRITTEN  AT  THE  CONVENT  OF  HAUT  VILLERS,  IN 
CHAMPAGNE,  1754. 

SILENT  and  clear,  through  yonder  peaceful  vale, 
While  Marne's  slow  waters  weave  their  mazy  way 
See,  to  the  exulting  sun  and  fostering  gale 

What  boundless  treasures  his  rich  banks  display ! 

Fast  by  the  stream,  and  at  the  mountain's  base. 
The  lowing  herds  through  living  pastures  rove; 

Wide-waving  harvests  crown  the  rising  space, 
And  still  superior  nods  the  viny  grove. 

High  on  the  top,  as  guardian  of  the  scene. 
Imperial  Sylvan  spreads  his  umbrage  wide ; 

Nor  wants  tliere  many  a  cot,  and  spire  between, 
Or  in  the  vale  or  on  the  mountain's  side. 

To  mark  that  man,  as  tenant  of  the  wliole. 
Claims  the  just  tribute  of  his  culturing  care, 

Yet  pays  to  Heaven,  in  gratitude  of  soul, 

The  boon  which  Heaven  accepts  of,  praise  and  prayer, 

O,  dire  effects  of  war !  the  time  has  been 
When  Desolation  vaunted  here  lier  reign; 

One  ravaged  desert  was  yon  beauteous  scene. 
And  Marne  ran  purple  to  the  frighted  Seine. 


IVRY-LA-BATAILLE.  199 

Oft  at  liis  work  the  toilsome  day  to  cheat 

The  swaiu  still  talks  of  those  disastrous  times. 

When  Guise's  pride  and  Coude's  ill-starred  heat 
Taught  Christian  zeal  to  authorize  their  crimes ; 

Oft  to  his  children  sportive  on  tlie  grass 
-  Does  dreadful  tales  of  worn  Tradition  tell, 
Oft  points  to  Eperuay's  ill-fated  pass 

Where  force  thrice  triumphed,  and  where  Biron  fell. 

0,  dire  effects  of  war !  may  evermore 

Through  this  sweet  vale  the  voice  of  discord  cease ! 
A  British  bard  to  Gallia's  fertile  shore 
Can  wish  the  blessings  of  eternal  peace. 
***** 

William  Whitehead. 


Ivry'la-Bataille, 

THE  BATTLE  OF  IVRY. 

Henry  IV.,  on  liis  accession  to  the  French  crown,  was  opposed  by  a 
large  part  of  his  subjects,  under  the  Duke  of  Mayenne,  with  the  assist- 
ance of  Spaiu  and  Savoy.  In  March,  1590,  lie  gained  a  decisive  victory 
over  that  party  at  Ivry. 

NOW  glory  to  the   Lord   of  Hosts,  from   whom   all 
glories  are ! 
And    glory   to    our    sovereign    liege,   King    Henry    of 

Navarre  ! 
Now  let  there  be  the    merry  sound   of   music  and  the 
dance. 


200  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Through  thy  cornfields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  0  pleas- 
ant land  of  Erance ! 

And  thou,  Rochelle,  our  own  Rochelle,  proud  city  of 
the  waters, 

Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning 
daughters. 

As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy, 

For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  are  they  who  \yrought  thy 
walls  annoy. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance 
of  war, 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  for  Ivry,  and  King  Henry  of  Navarre ! 

O,  how  our  hearts  were  beating,  when,  at  the  dawn  of 

day. 
We  saw  the   army  of  the   League    drawn  out  in  long 

array  ; 
With  all  its  priest-led  citizens,  and  all  its  rebel  peers, 
And  Appeiizell's  stout  infantry,  and  Egniont's  Flemish 

spears. 
There  rode  the  brood  of  false   Lorraine,  the  curses  of 

our  land ! 
And  dark.  Mayenne  was  in  the  midst,  a   truncheon   in 

his  hand  ; 
And,  as    we    looked   on    them,  we   thought    of    Seine's 

empurpled  flood, 
And   good  Culigni's    hoary    hair   all    dabbled    with    his 

blood ; 
And  we  cried  unto  the  living  God,  who  rules  the  fate 

of  war, 
To  fight  for  his  own  holy  name,  and  llcnry  of  Navarre. 


IVRY-LA-BATAILLE.  201 

Tlie  king  is  come  to  marshal  us,  in  all  liis  armor  drest ; 
And  he  has  bound  a  snow-white  plume  upon  his  gallant 

crest. 
He  looked  upon  his  people,  and  a  tear  was  in  his  eye ; 
He  looked  upon  the  traitors,  and  his  glance  was  stern 

and  high. 
Right  graciously  he  smiled  on  us,  as  rolled  from  wing 

to  wing, 
Down  all  our  line,  a  deafening  shout,  "  God  save  our 

lord  the  King  !  " 
"  And  if  my  standard-bearer  fall,   as  fall  full  well  he 

may,  — 
For  never  saw  I  promise  yet  of  such  a  bloody  fray,  — 
Press  where  ye  see  my  white  plume  shine,  amidst  the 

ranks  of  war. 
And  be  your  oriflamme,  to-day,  the  helmet  of  Navarre." 

Hurrah  !  the  foes  are  moving  !  Hark  to  the  mingled 
din 

Of  fife  and  steed,  and  trump  and  drum,  and  roaring 
culverin  ! 

The  fiery  duke  is  pricking  fast  across  St.  Andre's  plain, 

With  all  the  hireling  chivalry  of  Guelders  and  Almayne. 

Now  by  the  lips  of  those  ye  love,  fair  gentlemen  of 
France, 

Charge  for  the  golden  lilies  now  —  upon  them  with  the 
lance  ! 

A  thousand  spurs  are  striking  deep,  a  thousand  spears 
in  rest, 

A  thousand  knights  are  pressing  close  behind  the  snow- 
white  crest  1 


202  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Aud  ill  they  burst,  and  on  they  rushed,  wliile,  like  a 
guiding  star, 

Amidst  the  thickest  carnage  blazed  the  helmet  of  Na- 
varre, 

Now,  God  be  praised,  the  day  is  ours  !  Mayenne  hath 
turned  his  rein. 

D'Aumale  hath  cried  for  quarter.  The  Flemish  Count 
is  slain. 

Their  ranks  are  breaking  like  thin  clouds  before  a 
Biscay  gale; 

The  field  is  heaped  with  bleeding  steeds,  and  flags,  and 
cloven  mail. 

And  then  we  thought  on  vengeance,  and  all  along  our 
van, 

"  Remember  St.  Bartholomew !  "  was  passed  from  man 
to  man; 

But  out  spake  gentle  Henry,  "  No  Frenchman  is  my 
foe  : 

Down,  down  with  every  foreigner,  but  let  your  breth- 
ren go." 

0,  was  there  ever  such  a  knight,  in  friendship  or  in  war, 

As  our  sovereign  lord,  King  Henry,  the  soldier  of  Na- 
varre ! 

Ho  !  maidens  of  Vienna !     Ho  !  matrons  of  Lucerne  ! 
Weep,  weep,  and  rend   your  hair  for  those  who  never 

shall  return. 
Ho!  Philip,  send,  for  charity,  thy  Mexican  pistoles, 
That  Antwerp   monks    may  sing   a  n)ass    for   thy  poor 

spearmen's  souls ! 


JURANyON.  203 

Ho !  gallant  nobles  of  the  League,  look  that  your  arms 
be  bright ! 

Ho !  burghers  of  Saint  Genevieve,  keep  watch  and  ward 
to-night ! 

For  our  God   hath   crushed  the   tyrant,  our  God  hath 
raised  the  slave, 

And  mocked  the  couusel  of  the  wise  and  the  valor  of 
the  brave. 

Then  glory  to    his    holy  name,  from  whom   all   glories 
are  ; 

And  glory  to  our  sovereigu  lord.  King  Henry  of  Na- 
varre ! 

Thomas  Babington  Macaulay. 


Jurancon. 

THE  WINE  OF  JURANCON. 

LITTLE  sweet  wine  of  Juran9on, 
You  are  dear  to  my  memory  still ! 
With  mine  host  and  his  merry  song, 
Under  the  rose-tree  I  drauk  my  fill. 

Twenty  years  after,  passing  that  way, 
Under  the  trellis  I  found  again 
Mine  host,  still  sitting  there  au  frais. 
And  singing  still  the  same  refrain. 

The  Jnran9on,  so  fresh  and  bold. 
Treats  me  as  one  it  used  to  know; 


204  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Souvenirs  of  the  days  of  old 
Already  from  the  bottle  flow. 

With  glass  in  hand  our  glances  met. 
We  pledge,  we  drink.     How  sour  it  is! 
Never  Argenteuil  piquette 
Was  to  my  palate  sour  as  this ! 

And  yet  the  vintage  was  good  in  sooth, 
The  selfsame  juice,  the  selfsame  cask ! 
It  was  you,  0  gayety  of  my  youth. 
That  failed  in  the  autumnal  flask. 

Charles  Coran.     Tr.  Anon. 


Kaer-Is. 


THE  DROWNING  OF  KAER-IS. 

The  anonj'mous  chronicler  of  Ravenua  meiitioMs  a  town,  which  he  calls 
Ker-is,  as  existin[r  in  Armorica  in  the  fifth  century.  Here  ruled  a  prince 
called  Gradlonvavvre,  i.  e.  Gradion  the  Great.  Gradlon  was  the  protector 
of  Gwenole,  the  founder  of  the  Hrst  abbey  established  in  Brittany. 

I. 

HEARD  ye  the  word  the  man  of  God 
Spake  to  King  Gradlon,  blythe  of  mood, 
Where  in  fair  Kaer-Is  he  abode  ? 

"  Sir  King,  of  dalliance  be  not  fain. 
From  evil  loves  thy  heart  refrain. 
For  hard  on  pleasure  followeth  paiu. 


KAER-IS.  205 

"Who  feeds  liis  fill  on  fish  of  sea 
To  feed  the  fishes  doomed  is   he; 
The  swallower  swallowed  up  shall  be. 

"  Who  drinks  of  the  wine  and  the  barley-brew. 
Of  water  shall  drink  as  the  fishes  do ;  — 
Who  knows  not  this  shall  learn  't  is  true." 


II. 

Unto  his  guests  King  Gradlon  said: 
"My  merry  feres,  the  day  is  sped; 
I  will  betake  me  to  my  bed. 

"Drink  on,  drink  on,  till  morning  light. 
In  feast  and  dalliance  waste  the  night; 
For  all  that  will  the  board  is  dight." 

To  Gradlon's  daughter,  bright  of  blee, 

Her  lover  he  whispered,  tenderly  : 

"  Bethink  thee,  sweet  Dahut,  the  key !  " 

"  O,  I  '11  win  the  key  from  my  father's  side, 
That  bolts  the  sluice  and  bars  the  tide ; 
To  work  thy  will  is  thy  lady's  pride." 

III. 

Whoso  that  ancient  king  had  seen, 
Asleep  in  his  bed  of  the  golden  sheen, 
Dumb-stricken  all  for  awe  had  been 


206  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

To  see  liim  laid  in  his  robe  of  grain. 

His  liair  like  snow,  on  his  white  hause-banej 

And  round  his  neck  his  golden  chain. 

Whoso  had  watched  that  night,  I  weet. 
Had  seen  a  maiden  stilly  fleet 
In  at  the  door,  on  naked  feet; 

To  the  old  king's  side  she  hath  stolen  free, 
And  hath  kneeled  iier  down  upon  her  knee, 
And  lightly  hath  ta'en  both  chain  and  key. 

IV. 

He  sleepeth  still,  he  sleepeth  sound, 

When,  hark,  a  cry  from  the  lower  ground, - 

"The  sluice  is  oped,  Kaer-Is  is  drowned! 

"Awake,  Sir  King,  the  gates  unspar ! 
Rise  up,  and  ride  both  fast  and  far ! 
The  sea  flows  over  bolt  and  bar !  " 

Now  cursed  forever  mote  she  be. 

That  all  for  wine  and  harlotry, 

The  sluice  unbarred  that  held  the  sea ! 


"Say,  woodman,  that  wonn'st  in  the  forest  green, 
The  wild  horse  of  Gradlon  hast  thou  seen, 
As  he  passed  the  valley-walls  between  ? " 

1  "  Hause,"  "  lials-baue,"  neck-bone,  often   used  in  the  old  Scottisli 
ballads. 


KEULOAN.  207 

"On  Gradlon's  horse  I  set  not  sight, 

But  I  heard  him  go  by  in  the  dark  of  night, 

Trip,  trep, — trip,  trep, — like  a  fire-flaught  white  !'•* 

"Say,  fisher,  the  mermaid  hast  thou  seen, 
Combing  her  hair  by  the  sea-waves  green,  — 
Her  hair  like  gold  in  the  sunlight  sheen?" 

"  I  saw  the  white  maiden  of  the  sea, 

And  I  heard  her  chant  her  melody, 

And  her  song  was  sad  as  the  wild  waves  be." 

Ballads  of  Bnttany.     Tr.  Tom  Taylor. 


Kerloan. 


BRAN. 

A  GREAT  battle  is  recorded  in  liistory  as  having  been  fought  in  the 
tenth  century  near  Kerloan,  a  village  on  the  coast  of  Leon,  between  the 
Norsemen  and  the  Bretons  under  Ewen  the  Great.  The  Normans  were 
driven  to  their  ships,  but  carried  off  some  prisoners ;  among  them  tlie 
hero  of  this  ballad,  Bran,  the  grandson  of  a  still  greater  chieftain  of  tiie 
same  name,  often  mentioned  in  the  Breton  chronicles.  Near  Kerloan 
there  is  still  a  hamlet  called  after  him,  Kervran,  or  Bran's  Hold. 


SORE  wounded  lies  tlie  good  knight  Bran 
On  the  foughten  field  of  Kerloan. 

On  Kerloan  field,  hard  by  the  shore, 
Lieth  the  grandson  of  Bran-Vor. 


208  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Maugre  our  Bretons  won  the  day, 
He  's  bound  and  o'er  sea  borne  away. 

Borne  over  sea,  shut  up,  alone. 
In  donjon-tower  he  made  his  moan. 

"My  kin  they  shout  for  joy,  but  I, 
Sore  wounded,  on  my  bed  must  lie. 

"  O,  where  shall  I  find  a  post  to  bear 
A  letter  unto  my  mother  dear?" 

A  post  has  been  found,  and  in  this  wise  ran 
The  orders  of  the  good  knight  Bran, — 

"Now  busk  thee,  busk  thee  in  masquing  weed, 
A  beggar's  gown  were  safe  at  need. 

"And  take  this  signet-ring  o'  me. 
This  ring  of  gold,  for  a  token  to  be. 

"To  the  land  of  Leon  when  thou  shalt  fare, 
This  ring  to  my  lady  mother  bear, 

"And  if  she  come  with  my  ransom-fee, 
Hoist  a  white  flag,  that  I  may  see. 

"  And  if  she  come  not,  O  dule  and  woe  ? 
Hoist  a  black  flag,  that  I  may  know\" 


II. 

When  the  messenger  came  to  the  land  of  Leon, 
The  noble  dame  to  supper  had  gone. 


KERLOAN.  209 

To  supper  was  set,  with  lier  kinsmen  all,  — 
Ttie  merry  minstrels,  they  harped  in  hall. 

"Eair  fall  thee,  noble  chatelan, 

I  bring  this  ring  from  thy  fair  son  Bran. 

"His  ring  of  gold,  and  a  letter  thereon, — 
Behoves  you  read  it,  and  read  anon." 

"  My  merry  minstrels,  your  harping  give  o'er. 
With  a  heavy  grief  my  heart  is  sore. 

"  No  time  for  harping  is  this,  God  wot ; 
My  son  lies  bound,  and  I  knew  it  not. 

"To-night  make  me  a  good  ship  yare, 
That  to-morrow  I  over  sea  may  fare." 

III. 

The  morrow  morn,  from  off  liis  bed. 

The  good  knight  Bran  to  his  warder  said, — 

"  Warder,  warder,  look  out  and  see 
Is  there  no  ship  upon  the  sea  ? " 

"Now  nay,  Sir  Knight,  naught  never  see  I, 
But  it  be  the  great  sea  and  the  sky." 

The  good  knight  Bran,  at  mid  of  day, 
Again  to  the  M-arder  he  'gau  say, — 

"Warder,  warder,  look  out  and  see, 
Is  there  no  ship  upon  the  sea  ? " 


210  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

"Now  nay,  Sir  Knight,  I  see  naught,  I  trow. 
But  the  sea-mews  flying  to  and  fro." 

The  good  knight  Bran,  at  the  set  of  day, 
Again  to  the  warder  he  'gan  say, — 

"Warder,  warder,  look  out  and  see. 
Is  there  no  ship  upon  the  sea  ?  " 

Outspake  the  warder,  full  of  guile. 
And  smiled  on  him  a  cruel  smile, — 

"  A  shij)  I  see,  far,  far  away. 

And  the  winds  about  it  lash  the  spray." 

"  What  flag  ?  what  flag  blows  out  to  sight  ?  " 
Is  't  of  the  black?  is  't  of  the  white?" 

"Sir  Knight,  if  rightly  I  discern, 

'T  is  black, — I  swear  by  the  brands  that  burn." 

The  woful  knight,  when  this  he  heard, 
Thereafter  never  uttered  word. 

He  turned  his  pale  face  to  the  wall, 
And  shivered  as  they  that  in  fever  fall. 


IV. 

The  lady,  as  ever  she  leaped  to  land, 
Bespoke  the  townsfolk  upon  the  strand,  — 

"What  here  has  happed?  what  means  this  thing, 
That  thus  I  hear  the  church-bells  rinsr?" 


KERLOAN.  211 

An  aged  man,  that  the  ladje  heard, 
Made  answer  straight  upon  the  word,  — 

"  One  we  had  here  in  hold,  a  knight. 
Is  dead,  so  late  as  yesternight." 

Scarce  spoke  were  the  words  of  that  old  man. 
Distraught  to  the  tower  the  ladje  ran. 

O,  fast  flowed  her  tears,  as  fast  she  flew, 
With  her  thin  white  iiairs  all  loose  that  blew. 

That  the  townsfolk  marvelled  much  to  see 
An  aged  ladje,  of  high  degree, 

A  stranger  ladje,  in  wail  and  woe. 

And  mourning,  througii  their  streets  to  go, 

Tiiat  each  bespoke  other,  as  bj  she  ran, 

"  What  ladje  is  this  ?  what  kith  and  clan  ?  " 

To  the  high  tower  foot  Avhen  she  won  her  way. 
The  porter  the  weeping  dame  'gan  praj: 

"  Draw  bolt,  draw  bar,  and  let  me  in,  — 
Mj  son,  mj  son !  that  to  him  I  win !  " 

He  hath  drawn  the  bar,  and  the  bolt  hath  sprung: 
On  her  son's  dead  bodj  herself  she  flung. 

And  in  her  arms  she  clasped  him  amain. 
And  from  that  embrace  never  rose  again. 


213  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


V. 

Oil  the  battle-field  of  Kerloaii 

There  grows  a  tree  looks  o'er  the  Ian' ; 

There  grows  an  oak  iii  the  place  of  stour/ 
Where  the  Saxons  fled  from  Ewen-Vor. 

Upon  this  oak,  when  the  moon  shines  bright, 
The  birds  they  gather  from  the  night. 

Sea-mews,  pied  black  and  white  are  there, 
On  every  forehead  a  blood-speck  clear. 

With  them  a  corbie,  ash-gray  for  eld, 
Aad  a  young  crow^  aye  at  her  side  beheld. 

Wayworn  seem  the  twain,  with  wings  that  dreep. 
As  birds  that  flight  o'er  sea  must  keep. 

So  sweetly  sing  these  birds,  and  clear. 
The  great  sea  stills  its  waves  to  hear, 

And  aye  their  songs  one  burden  hold. 

All  save  the  young  crow's  and  the  corbie's  old. 

And  this  is  ever  the  crow's  sore  cry,  — 
"Sing,  little  birds,  sing  merrily. 

"Sing,  birds  o'  the  land,  in  merry  strain, 
You  died  not  far  from  your  own  Bretayne," 

Ballads  of  Brittany.     Tr.  Tom  Taylor. 

1  "  Battle,"  —  frequent  in  our  old  ballads. 

2  "  Bran,"  in  all  tlie  Breton  dialects,  means  "  a  crow." 


KEROULAZ.  218 

Keroulaz, 

THE  HEIEESS  OF  KEROULAZ. 


THE  little  heiress  had  no  care, 
Nor  other  thought  iu  life  she  knew, 
Than  play  and  gambol  free  as  air, 
As  great  lords'  daughters  wont  to  do. 

This  year  the  heiress  plays  no  more, 
An  orphan,  she  laments  in  vain, 

Her  father  left  her  wondrous  store,  — 
'T  were  well  her  kindred's  word  to  gain. 

"  Alas  !    my  only  friend,  farewell ! 

No  love  have  I  from  kindred  known, 
My  death  were  news  they  fain  would  tell. 

And  then  my  wealth  were  all  their  own ! 

But  Keroulaz'  fair  heiress  now 
Should  be  as  happy  as  the  day. 

For  flowers  of  gold  are  round  her  brow, 
She  wears  rich  gowns  embroidered  gay ; 

She  has  no  latchets  to  her  shoes. 
But  stockings  all  of  silk  so  bright. 

Such  as  an  heiress  well  may  choose. 
And  little  shoes  of  satin  white. 


214  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

So  tliought  the  guests,  wlieii  at  the  ball 
She  looked  as  bravely  as  a  bride  ; 

The  Marquis  led  her  through  the  hall, 
His  wily  mother  at  his  side. 

"O  that  I  were  a  bird  to  fly 
There,  where  I  luight  my  ear  iucline, 

As  in  her  chamber  secretly 

His  wily  mother  speaks  to  mine. 

"  My  heart  is  sick,  —  alas  !  I  fear 

Some  deep  design  their  steps  have  led  ; 

They  come  not  idly  wandering  here. 
And  know  an  heiress  is  to  wed ! 

"De  Mesle  a  noble  name  may  be. 

He  may  have  wealth,  perchance,  in  store, 

But  Kerthomaz  is  dear  to  me. 
And  will  be  loved  forevermore." 

Kerthomaz  looked  with  heart  oppressed, 
As  guests  came  trooping  far  and  near; 

He  loved  that  gentle  maid  the  best. 
As  he  to  her  alone  was  dear. 

"O  that  I  were  the  bird  of  night 
That  on  the  rose-tree  sings  so  fair, 

To  see  her  when  she  comes  all  bright 
To  gather  roses  for  her  hair ! 

"  Were  I  a  bird  upon  the  lake 

Where  maidens  lave  the  robes  she  wears. 
My  thirst  in  that  dear  wave  to  slake. 

And  swell  the  waters  with  my  tears." 


K^KOULAZ.  215 


II. 

That  Saturday  the  evening  brought 
Another  youth  who  loved  her  too. 

Young  Salaiin  yon  halls  has  sought, 
As  he  had  long  been  fond  to  do. 

He  forward  spurred  his  small  black  steed, 
And  at  the  castle  gate  he  stood ; 

The  heiress  came  herself  with  speed 
To  give  an  aged  woman  food. 

"O,  tell  me,  gentle  heiress,  pray. 

Where  are  the  gallant  nobles  gone  ?  " 

"They  all  have  sought  the  chase  to-day. 
Why  linger  you  behind  alone  ?  " 

"  I  came  not,  lady,  for  the  chase. 

I  came  to  Keroulaz  for  you, 
I  came  to  look  upon  your  face, 

And  tell  you  that  I  love  you  true  ! " 


HI. 

My  heart  is  sad,  each  day  the  same. 
The  heiress  to  her  mother  cried  ; 
'Tis  since  the  Marquis  hither  came, - 
0  mother  !    make  me  not  his  bride  ! 

My  hand  to  any  other  give,  — 
Let  Pennanrum  decide  my  lot. 


216  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Or  Salaiin  my  troth  receive, 

I  care  not,  so  De  Mesle  't  is  not ! 

"  If  I  the  best  of  all  niiglit  name. 
One  you  have  not  denied  is  he, 

0,  if  a  boon  I  dared  to  claim, 

Kerthomaz  should  my  bridegroom  be." 

"  Now,  good  Kerthomaz,  tell  me  all, 

And  let  the  truth  dwell  on  your  tongue; 

Say,  have  you  been  to  Kastelgall, 

And  saw  you  aught  of  vile  or  wrong  ? " 

"  I  saw  a  hall  all  filled  with  smoke. 
With  broken  casements  flapping  round ; 

I  saw  the  doors  all  black  and  broke. 
But  ne'er  a  page  nor  groom  I  found. 

*'  An  aged  crone  was  chopping  hay. 
No  corn  her  n^aster  would  afford ; 

Nor  better  is  the  feast  each  day 

That  crowns  De  Mesle  the  miser's  board  ! 

"  Now  shame,  Kerthomaz,  you  have  lied  ; 

The  Marquis  dwells  in  pomp  and  state, 
His  castle  shines  with  costly  pride, 

And  menials  at  his  bidding  wait. 

"  Both  blest  and  honored  is  her  lot 
Whom  he  shall  ask  his  bride  to  be  — " 

"  0  mother,  since  I  seek  it  not. 
Such  honor  is  not  grace  to  me  ! " 


K^KOULAZ.  217 

"  0  daugliter,  urge  me  not  again, 

I  seek  for  you  a  happy  home. 
My  word  is  given,  your  tears  are  vain. 

You  must  the  Marquis'  bride  become." 

The  dame  of  Keroulaz  was  moved. 

For  jealousy  lurked  in  her  heart ; 
Kerthomaz  secretly  she  loved, 

And  wished  the  heiress  should  depart. 

The  maiden's  heart  was  like  to  break, — 

"He  gave  me  pledges  oft  of  yore, 
0,  blithe  was  I  those  gifts  to  take, 

O,  sadly  I  those  gifts  restore ! 

"  Kerthomaz,  take  your  golden  chain. 
Your  ring,  your  seal,  I  now  resign; 

I  dare  not  any  pledge  retain, 

Since  I,  alas  !   may  not  be  thine ! " 


IV. 

That  heart  was  bard  that  would  not  melt 
To  see  what  looks  the  heiress  cast, 

How  sadly  at  her  gates  she  knelt, 

And  kissed  the  threshold  as  she  passed 

"  Farewell,  dear  Keroulaz,  farewell  ! 

And  all  the  scenes  I  prized  of  yore. 
My  friends,  my  love,  I  greet  ye  well, 

I  shall  behold  you  nevermore  ! " 


218  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  poor  were  weeping  one  and  all,  — 
"O,  mourn  not  tlms,"  tlie  heiress  cried, 

"  Come  to  me  straight  at  Kastelgall, 
And  all  your  wants  shall  be  supplied ; 

Eor  every  day  large  alms  I'll  give, 
And  wheat  and  oats  and  barley  fine, 

Three  times  a  week  ye  shall  receive,  — 
I  will  not  spare  the  wealth  that  's  mine." 

The  Marquis  frowned  upon  his  bride,  — 
"  You  shall  not  squander  thus  my  store. 

What  means  this  idle  boast  ?  "  he  cried, 
"  I  '11  have  no  beggars  swarm  my  door  ! " 

"My  lord,  no  gold  of  thine  I  crave. 
Yet  shall  my  alms  each  day  be  given, 

That  through  the  prayers  we  thus  shall  have. 
Our  souls  may  find  some  grace  in  heaven." 


Two  months  were  past,  —  "  O,  is  there  none 
That  dares  my  messenger  to  be. 

And  make  it  to  my  mother  known 

What  luckless  fate  has  chanced  to  me!" 

Then  softly  spake  a  gentle  page : 
"  Dear  lady,  write  a  letter  straight, 

And  I  my  truth  and  faith  engage 
To  leave  it  at  thy  mother's  gate." 


KEllOULAZ.  219 

The  heiress  made  but  small  delay, 

The  page  to  Keroulaz  has  hied, 
"Whsre  ill  the  hall,  with  knights  so  gay. 

Her  mother  sat  in  pomp  and  pride. 

Kerthomaz  stood  amidst  the  rest. 

But  when  the  letter  they  unfold. 
Sad  fears  are  in  the  mother's  breast, 

Kerthomaz'  cheek  is  pale  and  cold, 

"  0,  quick  the  grooms,  Kerthomaz,  call, 
To  saddle  straight  our  swiftest  steeds. 

We  must  to-night  to  Kastelgall, 

My  daughter  much  our  presence  needs  ! " 

When  at  the  castle  gate  they  rung, 

The  uiother  said,  "  What  means  this  cheer  ? 

Why  is  the  door  with  mourning  hung, 
What  heavy  cliance  has  fallen  here  ?  " 

"  Tlie  heiress  that  two  months  ago 
The  Lord  de  Mesle  went  hence  to  wed, 

Is  cause  of  all  these  marks  of  woe. 
That  gentle  dame  to-night  is  dead." 

"  0,  if  that  lady  is  no  more," 

The  mother  cried  in  accents  wild, 
"  'T  is  I  who  crushed  that  lovely  flower, 

'T  is  I  have  killed  my  only  child  ! 

"  Her  tears  my  pride  could  never  move. 
She  would  not  be  the  Marquis'  bride. 


220  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

But  said,  '  Kerthomaz  is  iny  love, 
i\.iid  1  can  love  no  inau  beside  ! '  '* 

Kerthomaz  from  tlie  world  is  fled. 
Yon  abbey  walls  conceal  his  care ; 

The  mother,  to  all  comfort  dead, 
Devotes  her  life  to  God  in  prayer. 

Anon.     Tr.  Louisa  Stuart  Costello. 


La  Cliaudeau, 

AT  LA  CHAUDEAU. 

AT  La  Chaudeau,  't  is  long  since  then, 
1  was  young,  —  my  years  twice  ten, 
All  things  smiled  on  the  happy  boy, 
Dreams  of  love  and  songs  of  joy, 
Azure  of  iieaveu,  and  wave  below. 
At  La  Chaudeau. 

To  La  Cliaudeau  I  come  back  old. 
My  head  is  gray,  my  blood  is  cold, 
Seeking  along  the  meadow  ooze, 
Seeking  beside  the  river  Seymouse, 
The  days  of  my  spring-time  of  long  ago 
At  La  Chaudeau. 

At  La  Chaudeau  nor  heart  nor  brain 
Ever  grows  old  with  grief  and  pain ; 


LA    CRAU.  221 

A  sweet  remembrance  keeps  off  age, 
A  tender  friendship  doth  still  assuage 
The  burden  of  sorrow  that  one  may  know 
At  La  Chaudeau. 

At  La  Chaudeau,  had  fate  decreed 
To  limit  the  wandering  life  I  lead, 
Peradventure  I  still  forsooth 
Should  have  preserved  my  fresli,  green  youth, 
Under  the  shadows  the  hill-tops  throw 
At  La  Chaudeau. 

At  La  Chaudeau,  live  on,  my  friends, 
Happy  to  be  where  God  intends ; 
And  sometimes  by  the  evening  fire 
Think  of  him  whose  sole  desire 
Is  again  to  sit  in  the  old  chateau 
At  La  Chaudeau. 

Xavier  Marmier.     Tr.  Anon. 


La  Craii, 


LA  CRAU. 

La  Crau  is  a  vast  stony  plain,  bounded  on  tlie  north  by  the  Alpines 
(Lower  Alps),  on  the  east  by  the  meres  of  Martigue,  west  by  the  Rhone, 
and  south  by  the  sea.     It  is  the  Arabia  Petr?ea  of  France. 

And  now  she  passes 
Curlews  in  flocks  asleep  amid  the  grasses 
Under  the  oaks,  who,  roused  from  slumber  soft. 


222  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Arise  in  liuste,  and  wing  tlieir  fliglit  aloft 
Over  the  sad  and  barren  plain ;  and  all 
Together  "  Cour'li !  cour'li !  cour'li!"  call. 

Until  the  Dawn,  with  her  dew-glittering  tresses, 
From  mountain-top  to  level  slow  progresses. 
Sweetly  saluted  by  the  tufted  lark, 
Soaring  and  singing  o'er  the  caverns  dark 
In  the  great  hills,  whose  pinnacles  each  one 
Appear  to  sway  before  the  rising  sun. 

Then  was  revealed  La  Crau,  the  bare,  the  waste, 
The  rough  with  stones,  the  ancient,  and  the  vast. 
Whose  proud  old  giants,  if  the  tale  be  true, 
Once  dreamed,  poor  fools,  the  Almighty  to  subdue 
With  but  a  ladder  and  their  shoulders  brave  ; 
But  He  them  'whelmed  in  a  destroying  wave. 

Already  had  the  rebels  dispossest 
The  Mount  of  Victory  of  his  tall  crest, 
Lifted  with  lever  from  its  place  ;  and  sure 
They  would  have  heaped  it  high  upon  Ventour, 
As  they  had  piled  the  rugged  escarpment 
They  froui  the  Alpine  range  had  earlier  rent. 

But  God  his  hand  extended  o'er  the  plain: 
The  northwest  wind,  thunder,  and  hurricane 
He  loosed ;  and  these  arose  like  eagles  three 
From  mountain  clefts  and  caverns  and  the  sea, 
Wrapped  in  thick  fog,  with  fury  terrible. 
And  on  the  marble  pile  together  fell. 


LA    CRAU.  223 

Then  were  the  rude  Colossi  overthrown ; 
And  a  dense  covering  of  pudding-stone 
Spread  o'er  La  Crau,  the  desolate,  the  vast. 
The  mute,  the  bare  to  every  stormy  blast; 
Who  wears  the  hideous  garment  to  this  day. 
Meanwhile  Mireio  farther  speeds  away 

From  the  home-lands,  while  the  sun's  ardent  glare 

Makes  visible  all  round  the  shimmering  air; 

And  shrill  cicalas,  grilling  in  the  grass. 

Beat  madly  evermore  their  tiny  brass. 

Nor  tree  lor  shade  was  there,  nor  any  beast : 

The  many  flocks  that  in  the  winter  feast 

On  the  short,  savory  grasses  of  the  moor. 

Had  climbed  the  Alps,  where  airs  are  cool  and  pure. 

And  pastures  fadeless.     Yet  the  maid  doth  fly 

Under  the  pouring  fire  of  a  June  sky,  — 

Fly,  fly,  like  lightning.     Lizards  large  and  gray 

Peep  from  their  holes,  and  to  each  other  say : 

"  She  must  be  mad  who  thus  the  shingle  clears. 
Under  a  heat  that  sets  the  junipers 
A-daucing  on  the  hills ;  on  Crau,  the  sands." 
The  praying  mantes  lift  beseeching  hands, 
"  Return,  return,  0  pilgrim !  "  murmuring, 
"  For  God  hath  opened  many  a  crystal  spring ; 

"  And  shady  trees  hath  planted,  so  the  rose 
To  save  upon  your  cheeks.     Why,  then,  expose 
Your  brow  to  the  unpitying  summer  heat?" 


324  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Vainly  as  well  the  butterflies  entreat. 

For  Ler  the  wings  of  love,  the  wind  of  faith, 

Bear  on  together,  as  the  tempest's  breath 

White  gulls  astray  over  the  briny  plains 

Of  Agui-Morto.     Utter  saduess  reigns 

In  scattered  sheep-cots  of  their  tenants  left. 

And  overrun  with  salicorne.     Bereft 

In  the  hot  desert,  seemed  the  maid  to  wake, 

And  see  nor  spring  nor  pool  her  thirst  to  slake. 

Frederic  Mistral.     Tr.  Harriet  W.  Preston. 


La  Garaye. 

CHATEAU  LA  GARAYE. 

RUINS  !     A  charm  is  in  the  word : 
It  makes  us  smile,  it  makes  us  sigh, 
'T  is  like  the  note  of  some  spring  bird 
Recalling  other  spriugs  gone  by. 
And  other  wood-notes  which  we  heard 
With  some  sweet  face  in  some  green  lane, 
And  never  can  so  hear  again  ! 

Ruins  !     They  were  not  desolate 
To  us,  —  the  ruins  we  remember  : 
Early  we  came  and  lingered  late, 
Through  bright  July  or  rich  September ; 


LA    GARAYE.  225 

With  yoiiiig  companions  wild  witli  glee, 
We  feasted  'neath  some  spreading  tree, 
And  looked  into  their  laughing  eyes, 
And  mocked  the  echo  for  replies. 
O  eyes  and  smiles   and  days  of  yore, 
Can  nothing  your  delight  restore? 
Return  ! 

Return  ?     In  vain  we  listen  ; 
Tliose  voices  have  been  lost  to  earth  ! 
Our  hearts  may  throb,  our  eyes  may  glisten. 
They  '11  call  no  more  in  love  or  mirth. 
For,  like  a  child  sent  out  to  play. 
Our  youth  liath  had  its  holiday, 
And  silence  deepens  where  we  stand 
Lone  as  in  some  foreign  land, 
Where  our  language  is  not  spoken, 
And  none  know  our  hearts  are  broken. 

Ruins  !     How  we  loved  them  then  ! 
How  we  loved  the  haunted  glen 
Which  gray  towers  overlook. 
Mirrored  in  the  glassy  brook. 
How  we  dreamed,   and  how  we  guessed. 
Looking  up,  with  earnest  glances, 
Where  the  black  crow  built  its  nest. 
And  we  built  our  wild  romances ; 
Tracing  in  the  crumbled  dwelling 
Bygone  tales  of  no  one's  telling  ! 

This  was  the  chapel ;  that  the  stair  ; 
Here,  where  all  lies  damp  and  bare, 


226  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  fragrant  thurible  was  swung, 
Tlie  silver  lamp  in  beauty  hung, 
And  in  that  mass  of  ivied  shade 
The  pale  nuns  sang,  the  abbot  prayed. 

This  was  the  kitchen.     Cold  and  blank 

The  huge  hearth  yawns ;  and  wide  and  high 

The  chimney  shows  the  open  sky  ; 

There  daylight  peeps  through  many  a  crank 

Where  birds  immuud  find  shelter  dank, 

And  when  the  moonlight  shineth  through. 

Echoes  the  wild  tu-whit  to-whoo 

Of  mournful  owls,  whose  languid  flight 

Scarce  stirs  the  silence  of  the  night. 

This  is  the  courtyard,  damp  and  drear ! 
The  men-at-arms  were  mustered  here  ; 
Here  would  the  fretted  war-horse  bound. 
Starting  to  hear  the  trumpet  sound ; 
And  captains,  then  of  warlike  fame. 
Clanked  and  glittered  as  they  came. 
"Forgotten  names  !  forgotten  wars  ! 
"Forgotten  gallantry  and  scars  ! 
How  is  your  little  busy  day 
Perisiied  and  crushed  and  swept  away ! 

Here  is  the  lady's  chamber,  whence 
With  looks  of  lovely  innocence 
Some  heroine  our  fancy  dresses 
In  golden  locks  or  raven  tresses. 
And  pearl-embroidered  silks  and  stuffs. 


LA    GARAYE.  227 

And  quaintly  quilted  sleeves  and  ruifs, 
Looked  forth  to  see  retainers  go. 
Or  trembled  at  the  assaulting  foe. 

This  was  the  dungeon  ;  deep  and  dark  ! 
Where  the  starved  prisoner  moaned  in  vain 
Until  death  left  liim,  stifP  and  stark, 
Unconscious  of  the  gallmg  chain 
By  which  the  thin  bleached  bones  were  bound 
When  chance  revealed  them  under  ground. 

0  Time,  O  ever-conquering  Time  ! 

These  men  had  once  their  prime  : 

But  now  succeeding  generations  hear 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  each  crumbling  arch 

The  music  low  and  drear. 

The  muffled  music  of  thy  onward  march. 

Made  up  of  piping  wmds  and  rustling  leaves 

And  plashing  rain-drops  falling  from  slant  eaves, 

And  all  mysterious  unconnected  sounds 

With  which  tlie  place  abounds. 

Time  doth  efface 

Each  day  some  lingering  trace 

Of  human  government  and  human  care : 

The  things  of  air 

And  earth  usurp  the  walls  to  be  their  own ; 

Creatures  that  dwell  alone. 

Occupy  boldly  ;  every  mouldering  nook 

Wherein  we  peer  and  look 

Seems  with  wild  denizens  so  swarming  rife. 

We  know  the  healthy  stir  of  human  life 


22S  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Must  be  forever  gone  ! 

The  walls  where  hung  the  warriors'  shining  casques 

Are  green  with  moss  and  mould  ; 

The  blindworm   coils  where   queens   have   slept,  nor 

asks 
For  shelter  from  the  cold. 
The  swallow,  —  he  is  master  all  the  day, 
And  the  great  owl  is  ruler  through  the  night; 
The  little  bat  wheels  on  his  circling  way 
With  restless  flittering  flight ; 

And  that  small  black  bat,  and  the  creeping  things, 
At  will  they  come  and  go, 
And  the  soft  wliite  owl  with  velvet  wings 
And  a  shriek  of  human  woe  ! 
The  brambles  let  no  footstep  pass 
By  that  rent  in  the  broken  stair, 
Where  the  pale  tufts  of  the  Avindle-strse  grass 
Hang  Hke  locks  of  dry  dead  hair ; 
But  there  the  keen  wind  ever  sweeps  and  moans, 
Working  a  passage  through  the  mouldering  stones. 

0  Time,  0  conquering  Time  ! 

1  know  tliat  wild  wind's  chime 
Which,  like  a  passing  bell 

Or  distant  knell, 

Speaks  to  man's  heart  of  death  and  of  decay; 

While  thy  step  passes  o'er  the  necks  of  kings 

And  over  common  things,  — 

And  into  earth's  green  orchards  making  way, 

Halts,  where  the  fruits  of  human  hope  abound, 

And  shakes  their  trembling  ripeness  to  the  ground. 


LA    GAR A YE.  229 

But  hark,  a  sudden  shout 

Of  laughter !  and  a  nimhle  giddy  rout, 

Wlio  know  not  yet  what  saddened  hours  may  mean, 

Come  dancing  through  the  scene ! 

Ruins  !  ruins  !  let  us  roam 

Through  what  was  a  human  home, 

What  care  we 

How  deep  its  depths  of  darkness  be  ? 

Follow  !     Follow  ! 

Down  the  hollow 

Through  the  bramble-fencing  thorns 

Where  the  white  snail  hides  her  horns  ; 

Leap  across  the  dreadful  gap 

To  that  corner's  mossy  lap,  — 

Do,  and  dare  ! 

Clamber  up  the  crumbling  stair ; 

Trip  along  the  narrow  wall. 

Where  the  sudden  rattling  fall 

Of  loosened  stones,  on  winter  nights, 

In  his  dreams  tlie  peasant  frights  ; 

And  push  them,  till  their  rollhig  sound. 

Dull  and  heavy,  beat  the  ground. 


Now  a  song,  liigh  up  and  clear, 
Like  a  lark's  enchants  the  ear ; 
Or  some  happy  face  looks  down, 
Looking,  0,  so  fresh  and  fair, 
Wearing  youth's  most  glorious  crown, 
One  ricli  braid  of  golden  hair  : 


230  POEMS    or    PLACES. 

Or  two  hearts  that  wildly  beat. 

And  two  pair  of  ea<^er  feet, 

Linger  in  the  turret's  bend. 

As  they  side  by  side  ascend, 

Tor  the  momentary  bliss 

Of  a  lover's  stolen  kiss  ; 

And  emerge  into  the  shining 

Of  that  summer  day's  declining. 

Disengaging  clasping  hands 

As  they  meet  their  comrade  bands ; 

With  the  smile  that  lately  hovered 

(Making  lips  and  eyes  so  bright), 

And  the  blush  which  darkness  covered 

Mantling  still  in  rosy  light ! 

Ruins!     O,  ye  have  your  charm; 
Death  is  cold,  but  life  is  warm  ; 
And  the  fervent  days  we  knew 
Ere  our  hopes  grew  faint  and  few. 
Claim  even  now  a  happy  sigh, 
Thinking  of  those  hours  gone  by : 
Of  the  wooing  long  since  passed,  — 
Of  the  love  that  still  shall  last,  — 
Of  the  wooing  and  the  winning ; 
Brightest  end  to  bright  beginning ; 
When  the  feet  we  sought  to  guide 
Tripped  so  lightly  by  our  side, 
Tiiat,  as  swift  they  made  their  way 
Through  the  path  and  tangled  brake. 
Safely  we  could  swear  and  say 
We  loved  all  ruins  for  their  sake ! 


LA    QUENILLE    (LA    QUEILLE).  231 

Gentle  lieurts,  one  ruin  more 
From  amongst  so  many  score,  — 
Oii3,  tVoiu  oat  a  host  of  names. 
To  your  notice  puts  forth  claims. 
Come  !   with  me  make  holiday, 
In  the  woods  of  La  Garaye, 
Sit  within  those  tangled  bowers, 
Where  fleet  by  the  silent  hours. 
Only  broken  by  a  song 
From  the  chirping  woodland  throng. 
Listen  lo  the  tale  I  tell  ; 
Grave  the  story  is,  not  sad  ; 
And  the  peasant  plodding  by 
Greets  the  place  with  kindly  eye 
For  the  inmates  that  it  had  ! 

The  Hon.  Mrs.  Norton. 


La  Quenille  [La  Queille), 

A  MODERN  PILGRIMAGE. 

I  WAITED  at  La  Quenille,  ten  miles  or  more 
From  the  old  Roman  sources  of  Mont  Dore; 
Travellers  to  Tulle  this  way  are  forced  to  go, 
An  old  high-road  from  Lyons  to  Bordeaux. 
From  Tulle  to  Brives  the  swift  Correze  descends. 
At  Brives  you  've  railway,  and  your  trouble  ends. 
A  little  bourg  La  Quenille  :    and  from  the  height 
The  mountains  of  Auvergne  are  all  in  sight,  — 


232  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Green  pastoral  heights,  that  once  in  lava  flowed, 
Of  primal  lire  the  product  and  abode, — 
And  all  the  plateaus,  and  tlie  lines  that  trace 
Where  in  deep  dells  the  waters  find  their  place. 
Far  to  the  south,  above  the  lofty  plain, 
The  Plomb  de  Cantal  lifts  his  towering  train. 

Arthur  Hugh  dough. 


Lire. 

DU  BELLAY  TO  HIS  NATIYE  VILLAGE. 

HAPPY  who  like  Ulysses  has  explored, 
Or  he  who  sought  afar  the  golden  fleece, 
And  safe  returned,  his  mind  with  wisdom  stored, 

Amidst  his  native  vales  retires  in  peace. 
When  shall  I  hail  again  my  village  spires, — 

The  blue  smoke  rising  from  that  village  see, 
Aud  the  poor  mansion  of  my  simple  sires. 

Its  garden  walks  a  realm,  and  more  to  me  ! 
Dearer  to  me  the  home  that  thought  recalls 
Than  Roman  palaces  and  gorgeous  halls. 
Richer  than  marble  or  than  sculptured  stone 
The  gray  slate  on  my  humble  roof  that  sbone. 
More  bright  than  vaunted  Tiber's  ancient  tide 
My  gentle  Loire's  soft  waves,  that  murmuring  glide. 
Sweeter  than  ocean's  breezes  fresh  and  fair 
My  lovely  Anjou's  bright  and  balmy  air. 
And  greater  to  this  longing  heart  of  mine 
My  little  Lire  than  Mont  Palatine! 

Joachim  du  Bellay.     Tr.    Louisa  Stuart  Custello. 


LOIRE,    THE    RIVER.  233 


Loire,  the  River. 

THE  LOIRE. 

ALONG  that  very  Loire,  witli  festal  mirth 
Resounding  at  all  hours,  and  innocent  yet 
Of  civil  slaughter,  was  our  frequent  walk  ; 
Or  in  wide  forests  of  continuous  shade, 
Lofty  and  overarched,  with  open  space 
Beneatli  the  trees,  clear  footing  many  a  mile,  — 
A  solemn  region.     Oft  amid  those  haunts 
From  earnest  dialogues  I  slipped  in  thought, 
And  let  remembrance  steal  to  other  times. 
When  o'er  those  interwoven  roots,  moss-clad. 
And  smooth  as  marble  or  a  waveless  sea, 
Some  hermit,  from  his  cell  forth  strayed,  might  pace 
In  sylvan  meditation  undisturbed  ; 
As  on  the  pavement  of  a  Gotiiic  church 
Walks  a  lone  monk,  when  service  hath  expired. 
In  peace  and  silence.     But  if  e'er  was  heard  — 
Heard,  though  unseen  —  a  devious  traveller, 
Retiring  or  approaching  from  afar 
Witli  speed,  and  echoes  loud  of  trampling  hoofs 
Troin  the  liard  floor  reverberated,  then 
It   was  Angelica  thundering  through  the  woods 
Ui)on  her  palfrey,  or  that  gentle  maid 
Erminia,  fugitive  as  fair  ns  she. 
Sometimes  methought  I  saw  a  pair  of  knights 
Joust  underneath  the  trees,  that  as  in  storm 


234  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Rocked  iiigli  above  tlieir  heads ;    auon,  the  din 

Of  boisterous  merriment,  and  music's  roar, 

In  sudden  proclamation,  burst  from  haunt 

Of  Satyrs  in  some  viewless  glade,  with  dance 

Rejoicing  o'er  a  female  in  the  midst, 

A  mortal  beauty,  their  unhappy  thrall. 

The  width  of  those  huge  forests,  unto  me 

A  novel  scene,  did  often  in  this  way 

Master  my  fancy  while  I  wandered  on 

With  that  revered  companion.     And  sometimes. 

When  to  a  convent  in  a  meadow  green. 

By  a  brookside,  we  came,  a  roofless  pile, 

And  not  by  reverential  touch  of  Time 

Dismantled,  but  by  violence  abrupt,  — 

In  spite  of  those  heart-bracing  colloquies, 

In  spite  of  real  fervor,  and  of  that 

Less  genuine  and  wrought  up  within  myself,  — 

I  could  not  but  bewail  a  wrong  so  harsh. 

And  for  the  matin-bell  to  sound  no  more 

Grieved,  and  the  twilight  taper,  and  the  cross 

High  on  the  topmost  pinnacle,  a  sign 

(How  welcome  to  the  weary  traveller's  eyes!) 

Of  hospitality  and  peaceful  rest. 

And  when  the  partner  of  those  varied  walks 

Pointed  upon  occasion  to  the  site 

Of  Romorcntin,  home  of  ancient  kings, 

To  the  imperial  edifice  of  Blois, 

Or  to  that  rural  castle,  name  now  slipped 

Erom  my  remembrance,  where  a  lady  lodged, 

By  the  first  Francis  wooed,  and  bound  to  him 

In  chains  of  mutual  passion,  from  the  tower, 


LOIRE,    THE    RIVER.  235 

As  a  tradition  of  tlie  country  tells, 

Practised  to  commune  with  her  royal  knight 

By  cressets  and  lovc-beucous,  intercourse 

'Twixt  her  high-seated  residence  and  his 

Far  off  at  Cliumbord  on  the  plain  beneath ; 

Even  here,  though  less  than  with  the  peaceful  house 

Religious,  mid  those  frequent  monuments 

Of  kings,  their  vices  and  their  better  deeds, 

Imagiuation,  potent  to  inflame 

At  times  with  virtuous  wrath  and  noble  scorn 

Did  also  often  mitigate  the  force 

Of  civic  prejudice,  the  bigotry. 

So  call  it,  of  a  youthful  patriot's  mind ; 

And  on  these  spots  with  many  gleams  I  looked 

Of  chivalrous  delight. 

William  Wordsworth. 


TO  THE  LOIRE. 

RIVER  of  the  golden  sands. 
River  of  the  sunny  lands, 
How  blithe  thy  rolling  waves  advance, 
The  life-streams  of  thy  glorious  France  ! 
Tiie  pilgrim,  wandering  near  thy  tide, 
Forgets  his  toil  tliose  banks  beside, 
Wliile  checkered  fancies,  proud  and  vast, 
Fling  o'er  his  soul  the  mighty  Past. 


Not  thine  the  lot,  in  silent  vale. 
Unseen,  to  kiss  the  osiers  pale,  - 


236  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Through  pool  or  waste  or  fen  to  pass 
By  stagnant  lake  or  lone  morass. 
Springs  forth  thy  source  in  earliest  birth, 
To  deck  with  gifts  the  grateful  earth ; 
Bears  onward  still  the  richest  stores. 
And  casts  broad  harvests  on  thy  shores. 

Yet  is  thy  temper,  sooth  to  tell, 

Like  thine  own  land  thou  lov'st  so  well. 

And  change  comes  o'er  thy  beaming  smile. 

Inconstant  as  a  maiden's  wile ; 

While  all  seems  tranquil  on  thy  face. 

Sweeps  o'er  the  plain  thy  sudden  race. 

And  wide  thy  boiling  surges  roll, 

O'er  homestead  lone  and  fenceless  knoll. 

The  poplar,  thy  true  vassal,  sees, 
The  angry  torrent's  frenzied  hour. 
And,  bending  low  before  the  breeze. 
Does  homage  to  unquestioned  power. 
-^         No  change  of  dynasties  is  here,  — 

Loire's  gleaming  sword  is  always  near ; 
Crowns  may  be  lost,  and  states  o'erthrowu, 
Yet  Loire  forever  holds  her  own. 

Far  on  the  dim  horizon's  line 

Thy  golden  spires,  fair  Orleans,  shine  ; 

With  glories  laden,  as  with  years, 

Thy  giant  minster's  form  appears ; 

While  still  by  Loiret's  filial  stream 

St.  Mesmin's  humbler  lilies  gleam. 

And  pious  Clovis  smiles  above 

O'er  broad  lands  g-iven  for  churches'  love. 


LOIRE,    THE    RIVER.  237 

Pass  onwards,  towards  still  distant  Blois; 
Dream  of  Beaugencj  and  Dunois ; 
Breathe  not  too  long  St.  Clerv's  air, 
Nor  seek  the  grave  of  "Maitre  Pierre." 
Let  Menars,  with  its  bowers,  beguile; 
Let  Pompadour's  ambitious  smile. 
Which  royal  love  paid  dear  to  buj, 
Dwell  on  the  pilgrim's  memory. 

Pause  not  where  frowns  yon  darkling  pile, 
As  though  it  shunned  the  sunbeam's  smile. 
Deserted  Blois !  thy  vanes  of  yore 
Aloft  the  royal  lilies  bore ; 
Yet  lurked  thy  gloomy  towers  beneath 
Treason  and  murder,  blood  and  death, 
When  Henry  steeped  his  soul  in  crime, 
And  Catharine  sought  to  master  Time. 

The  bright  stars  shine  upon  thy  shore, 
River,  as  they  were  wont  before ; 
Still  flow  thy  waves  in  eddies  deep, 
Where  noble  Guise  was  doomed  to  sleep. 
The  dark  astrologer,  unsh riven. 
With  Catharine,  waits  the  doom  of  heaven ; 
Victims  and  kings  alike  are  past 
To  their  dread  trial  at  the  last. 

Come,  let  us  wander  far  away, 
While  shadows  robe  declining  day: 
O'er  wooded  plains  and  forests  deep, 
Where  royal  Chambord's  turrets  sleep. 
The  sculptured  lily  fresh  and  fair, 
Symbol  of  sovereign  power,  is  there,  — 


238  POEMS  or  places. 

No  longer  prostrate  on  the  earth. 
But  blooming  in  a  second  JDirth. 

Say,  mighty  river,  is  the  sword 
Forever  sheathed  for  Chanibord's  lord  ? 
France's  pure  lily  seems  a  sham, 
Unsheltered  by  the  oriflambe. 
Silence  and  solitude  reign  there, 
And  point  to  Henri's  vacant  chair; 
Sad  is  the  lot,  and  deep  the  trance, 
Of  those  who  love  the  son  of  France. 

Through  tufted  heights  and  woodlands  green 
Fair  Chaumont's  donjon  lowers  between. 
Time  was  when  warriors  kept  this  prize, 
Time  was  't  was  given  for  woman's  eyes  ; 
Time  is,  and  those  embattled  towers 
By  woman's  hand  are  crowned  with  flowers ; 
Through  moss-grown  walls  the  woodbines  creep, 
And  roses  kiss  the  hoary  keep. 

Now  seek  thee  good  St.  Hubert's  cell, 
Where  Amboise  boasts  her  citadel ; 
Fortress  and  prison,  pride  and  shame. 
That  makes,  yet  mars,  a  nation's  fame; 
Of  old,  dark  records  tell  of  cost 
Of  life,  and  lands  and  freedom  lost; 
And  now,  the  Arab  chieftain's  fate, 
And  France's  honor,  saved  too  late  ! 

Joy  to  thee,  noble  river,  joy  ! 

No  slothful  brooks  thy  course  alloy ; 


LUBEUON,    THE    MOUNTAINS.  239 

Swiftly  by  curtaiued  Azy's  keep, 

Indre  pours  forth  her  currents  deep, 

Sweeps  on  her  course  tlie  winding  Yieuue, 

Where  Domremy  souglit  regal  ken. 

And  Chinon's  leafy  honors  wave 

O'er  brave  De  Molay's  knightly  grave. 

Sweet  are  thy  amorous  precincts,  Cher! 
Spangled  with  flowers  thy  meadows  are ; 
Fair  as  of  old  thy  tangled  woods 
And  clear  aud  deep  thy  gushing  floods. 
Yon  stately  pile  is  fresh  and  gay. 
As  time  had  cast  his  scythe  away  : 
Since  unchaste  Dian  drew  her  bow, 
With  hound  and  horn  at  Chenonceaux. 

Anonijmons. 


Luberon,    the   Mountains. 

GATHEKING  THE  COCOONS. 

ONCE,  in  the  wild  woods  of  the  Luberon, 
A  shepherd  kept  his  flock.     His  days  were  long ; 
But  when  at  last  the  same  were  welluigh  spent, 
Aud  toward  the  grave  his  iron  frame  was  bent, 
He  sought  the  hermit  of  Saint  Ouqueri, 
To  make  his  last  confession  piously. 

Alone,   in  the  Yaumasco  valley  lost, 

His  foot  had  never  sacred  threshold  crost. 


240  POEMS    or    PLACES. 

Since  he  partook  liis  first  comnmnion. 
Even  liis  prayers  were  from  liis  memory  gone ; 
But  now  lie  rose  and  left  liis  cottage  lowly, 
And  came  and  bowed  before  the  hermit  holy. 

"With  what  sin  chargest  thou  thyself,  my  brother?" 

The  solitary  said.     Replied  the  other, 

The  aged  man,  "Once,  long  ago,  I  slew 

A  little  bird  about  my  flock  that  flew,  — 

A  cruel  stone  I  flung  its  life  to  end  : 

It  was  a  wagtail,  and  the  shepherds'  friend." 

"Is  this  a  simple  soul,"  the  hermit  thought, 

"Or  is  it  an  impostor?"     And  he  sought 

Curiously  to  read  the  old  man's  face 

Until,  to  solve  the  riddle,  "  Go,"  he  says, 

"  And  hang  thy  shepherd's  cloak  yon  beam  upon. 

And  afterward  I  will  absolve  my  son." 

A  single  sunbeam  through  the  chapel  strayed ; 
And  there  it  was  the  priest  the  suppliant  bade 
To  hang  his  cloak !     But  the  good  soul  arose. 
And  drew  it  off  with  mien  of  all  repose. 
And  threw  it  upward.     And  it  hung  m  sight 
Suspended  on  the  slender  shaft  of  light ! 

Then  fell  the  hermit  prostrate  on  the  floor, 

"  O  man  of  God !  "  he  cried,  and  he  wept  sore, 

"Let  but  the  blessed  liand  these  tears  bedew. 

Fulfil  the  sacred  ofiice  for  us  two! 

No  sins  of  thine  can  I  absolve,  'tis  clear: 

Thou  art  the  saint,  and  1  the  sinner  here  !  " 

Fredc'/ic  Mistral.     Tr.  Harriet  W.  Preston. 


MARLY-LE-ROI.  241 

Marly-le-RoL 

MARLY-LE-ROI. 

TO  these  dark  groves  a  royal  footstep  came. 
And  all  the  woods  awoke.     Huge  stems  were  felled 
To  let  in  vistas  of  the  winding  Seine, 
While  midway  on  the  hill  the  walls  arose 
Of  the  king's  house,  and  round  about  his  own 
Were  twelve  pavilions  set,  zodiacal 
Unto  the  king's,  whicli  was  the  central  sun ! 
'T  was  Mansard  built  tiiem,  and  Lebrun  who  wrought 
Devices  for  the  walls,  while  every  grove, 
And  every  alley  double-lined  with  limes, 
Had  its  own  white-limbed  god  ;  and  in  the  sun 
A  hundred  fountains  played,  whose  waters  leapt 
Rejoicing  down  the  slope.     A  hundred  years 
The  sister  arts  lield  sway.     Here  Louis  reigned 
With  that  strong  hand  of  his ;  strong  in  despite 
Of  much  mistake  and  failure.     The  grave  wife, 
Who  ruled  the  ruler  in  his  older  years, 
Kept  solemn  state  amidst  the  whispering  court ; 
And  when  the  pageant  vanished,  and  the  times 
Changed  with  the  man,  here  the  gay  Regent  played ; 
And  here  the  child,  tlie  little  lovely  child. 
Who  was  the  heir  to  France  and  ruined  her. 
Played  with  his  mates.  Desired  and  Well-beloved, 
Through  all  those  early  years.     St.  Simon  paced 
Those  double  alleys,  with  a  prudent  tongue. 
And  still  more  prudent  ear;  and  the  sweet  bride. 


242  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Marie  Leczinska,  mother  of  a  son 
Too  early  lost,  for  whom  that  mother  prayed, — 
"Take  him,  O  God,  and  spare  his  father's  fate. 
The  shameful  license  of  a  shameless  age,"  — 
Mourned  through  long  years  of  worse  than  widowhood. 
And  here  the  blue- eyed  woman  with  the  brow 
Which  never  blenched  before  the  angriest  mob. 
Held  "  mon  gros  Normandie"  upon  her  knees, — 
Poor  pretty  infant !  ne'er  to  be  a  man,  — 
And  pressed  him  to  her  heart. 

Marly-le-Roi 
Is  utterly  desolate  now ;  and  not  a  trace 
Of  the  Pavilion  of  the  Central  Sun, 
Nor  of  the  other  twelve,  —  zodiacal,  — 
Exists  above  the  soil,  save  the  hard  lines 
Of  strong  foundations  bedded  in  the  grass. 
There  are  no  fountains  shining  in  the  light. 
Nor  any  waters  leaping  down  the  hill. 
The  marble  gods  are  gone ;  but  still  the  woods 
Sweep  with  a  certain  curve  majestical 
About  the  empty  space,  as  if  they  held 
A  viewless  memory  in  their  wide  embrace. 
And  were  too  loath  to  lose  it  and  encroach 
Upon  the  ancient  sites.     On  either  hand 
The  double  alleys  put  forth  patient  leaves. 
Season  l)y  season,  though  no  courtiers  come 
To  plot  and  gossip  there ;  the  hand  of  man 
Has  ruined  what  he  raised;  but  Nature,  hard 
To  fashion  at  his  will,  retains  his  mark. 
And  witnesses  with  her  persistent  forms 

The  changes  of  his  purpose. 

Bessie  Rai/ner  Parkes. 


MARMOUTIER.  243 

Marmoutier, 

THE  MONK  OF  MARMOUTIER. 

THERE  is  a  convent  on  the  Alban  liill, 
Round  whose  stone  roots  tlic  gnarled  olives  grow ; 
Above  are  murmurs  of  the  mountain  rill. 

And  all  the  broad  campagna  lies  below ; 
Where  faint  gray  buildings  and  a  shadowy  dome 
Suggest  the  splendor  of  eternal  Rome. 

Hundreds  of  years  ago  these  convent  walls 

Were  reared  by  masons  of  the  Gothic  age: 
The  date  is  carved  upon  the  lofty  halls, 
•  The  story  written  on  the  illumined  page. 
What  pains  they  took  to  make  it  strong  and  fair 
The  tall  bell-tower  and  sculptured  porch  declare. 

When  all  the  stones  were  placed,  tlie  windows  stained. 
And  the  tall  bell-tower  finished  to  the  crown, 

One  only  want  in  this  fair  pile  remained, 
Whereat  a  cunning  workman  of  the  town 

(The  little  town  upon  the  Alban  hill) 

Toiled  day  and  night  his  purpose  to  fulfil. 

Seven  bells  he  made,  of  very  rare  device. 
With  graven  lilies  twisted  up  and  down; 

Seven  bells  proportionate  in  differing  size. 
And  full  of  melody  from  rim  to  crown; 


244  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

So  that  wlien  shaken  by  tlie  wind  alone 
Thev  murmured  with  a  sol't  ^olian  tone. 

These  being  placed  within  the  great  bell-tower, 

And  duly  rung  by  pious  skilful  hand, 
Marked  the  due  prayers  of  each  recurring  hour. 

And  sweetly  mixed  persuasion  witli  command. 
Through  the  gnarled  olive-trees  the  music  wound, 
And  miles  of  broad  campagna  heard  the  sound. 

And  then  the  cunning  workman  put  aside 

His  forge,  his  hammer,  and  the  tools  he  used 

To  chase  those  lilies ;  his  keen  furnace  died ; 
And  all  who  asked  for  bells  were  hence  refused. 

With  these  his  best  his  last  were  also  wrought. 

And  refuge  in  the  convent  walls  he  sought. 

There  did  he  live,  and  there  he  hoped  to  die, 
Hearing  the  wind  among  the  cypress-trees 

Hint  unimagined  music,  and  the  sky 

Throb  full  of  chimes  borne  downwards  by  the  breeze ; 

Whose  undulations  sweeping  through  the  air 

His  art  might  claim  as  an  embodied  prayer. 


But  those  were  stormy  days  in  Italy : 

Down  came  the  spoiler  from  the  uneasy  North, 

Swept  the  campagna  to  the  bounding  sea. 

Sacked  pious  homes  and  drove  the  inmates  forth; 

Whether  a  Norman  or  a  German  foe 

History  is  silent,  and  we  do  not  know. 


MARMOUTIER.  245 

Brotliers  in  faith  were  they;  yet  did  not  deem 
The  sacred  precincts  barred  destroying  hand. 

Through  those  rich  windows  poured  the  whitened  beanij 
Forlorn  tlie  church  and  ruined  altar  stand. 

As  the  sad  monks  went  forth  that  selfsame  hour 

Saw  empty  silence  in  the  great  bell-tower. 

The  outcast  brethren  scattered  far  and  wide ; 

Some  by  the  Danube  rested,  some  in  Spain : 
On  the  green  Loire  the  aged  abbot  died, 

By  whose  loved  feet  one  brother  did  remain, 
Faithful  in  all  his  wanderings  :  it  was  he 
Who  cast  and  chased  those  bells  in  Italy. 

He,  dwelling  at  Marmoutier,  by  the  tomb 
Of  his  dear  father,  where  the  shining  Loire 

Flows  down  from  Tours  amidst  the  purple  bloom 
Of  meadow-flowers,  some  years  of  patience  saw. 

Those  fringed  isles  (where  poplars  tremble  still) 

Swayed  like  the  olives  of  the  Alban  hill. 

The  man  was  old,  and  reverend  in  his  age ; 

And  the  "  Great  Monastery  "  held  him  dear. 
Stalwart  and  stern,  as  some  old  Roman  sage 

Subdued  to  Christ,  he  lived  from  year  to  year, 
Till  his  beard  silvered,  and  the  fiery  glow 
Of  his  dark  eye  was  overhung  with  snow. 

* 
And  being  trusted,  as  of  prudent  way. 

They  chose  him  for  a  message  of  import, 
Which  the  "  Great  Monastery  "  would  convey 

To  a  good  patron  in  an  Irish  court; 


246  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Who  by  the  Shauiioii  souglit  the  means  to  found 
St.  Martin's  olFshoot  on  that  distant  ground. 

The  old  Italian  took  his  staff  in  liand, 

And  journeyed  slowly  from  the  green  Touraine, 

Over  the  heather  and  salt-sliining  sand. 
Until  he  saw  the  leaping-crested  main, 

Which,  dashing  round  the  Cape  of  Brittany, 

Sweeps  to  the  confines  of  the  Irish  Sea. 

There  he  took  ship,  and  thence  with  laboring  sail 
He  crossed  the  waters,  still  a  faint  gray  line 

Rose  in  the  Nortliern  sky ;  so  faint,  so  pale,  — 
Only  the  heart  that  loves  her  would  divine. 

In  her  dim  welcome,  all  that  fancy  paints 

Of  the  green  glory  of  the  Isle  of  Saints. 

Through  the  low  banks,  where  Shannon  meets  the  sea. 
Up  the  broad  waters  of  the  River  King 

(Then  populous  with  a  nation),  journeyed  he, 
Througii  that  old  Ireland  which  her  poets  sing; 

And  tiie  wliite  vessel,  breasting  up  the  stream, 

Moved  slowly,  like  a  ship  witiiin  a  dream. 

When  Liinerick  towers  uprose  before  his  gaze, 
A  sound  of  music  floated  in  the  air,  — 

Music  which  held  him  in  a  fixed  amaze. 
Whose  silver  tenderness  was  alien  there; 

Notes  full  of  murmurs  of  the  Southern  seas,t 

And  dusky  olives  swaying  in  the  breeze. 

His  chimes !  the  children  of  the  great  bell-tower, 
Empty  and  silent  now  for  many  a  year ! 


MARSEILLES.  247 

He  hears  them  ringing  out  the  Vesper  hour, 

Owned  in  an  instant  bj  his  loving  ear. 
Kind  angek  stayed  the  spoiler's  hasty  hand, 
And  watched  their  journeying  over  sea  and  land. 

The  white-sailed  boat  moved  slowly  up  the  stream ; 

The  old  man  lay  with  folded  hands  at  rest; 
The  Shannon  glistened  in  the  sunset  beam ; 

The  bells  rang  gently  o'er  its  shining  breast. 
Shaking  out  music  from  each  lilied  rim  : 
It  was  a  requiem  which  they  rang  for  him  ! 

For  when  the  boat  was  moored  beside  the  quay. 
He  lay  as  children  lie  when  lulled  by  song; 

But  nevermore  to  waken.     Tenderly 

They  buried  him  wild-flowers  and  grass  among. 

Where  on  the  cross  alights  the  wandering  bird, 

And  hour  by  hour  the  bells  he  loved  are  heard. 

Bessie  Rayner  Parkes. 


Marseilles, 

MARSEILLES. 

THOU  fair  Marseilles,  who  openest  on  the  sea 
Thy  haughty  eyes  and  gazest  languidly, 
As  though  naught  else  were  worthy  to  behold. 
And,  though  the  winds  rage,  dreamest  but  of  gold. 
When  Lazarus  preached  to  thee,  thou  didst  begin 
Those  eyes  to  close,  and  see  the  night  within. 


248  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

And  to  the  fountain  of  I'Huveaune  speedinj^, 

The  source  whereof  Magdaleue's  tears  were  feeding. 

Didst  wash  thy  sins  away ;  and  in  this  hour 

Art  proud  once  more;  but  other  storms  may  lower. 

Forget  not,  then,  amid  thy  revelries, 

Whose  tears  they  are  that  bathe  thine  olive-trees ! 

Frederic  Mistral.     Tr.  Harriet  W\  Presto% 


CAPTAIN  KANCE.    1525. 

WHEN  Bourbon  saw  Marseilles, 
Unto  his  troops  said  he, 
"I  wonder  now  what  captain 
Within  that  town  may  be  ? 

"  I  care  not  half  a  crown 
For  any  man  iu  France, 
If  only  within  that  town 
Be  not  the  Captain  Ranee." 

Then  up  the  Mont  Coulombe, 
The  narrow  passage  through, 
They  all  togetiier  clombe, 
And  on  their  fingers  blew. 

Saying,  with  weary  knees, 
"  Let  us  all  courage  take ; 
Should  we  .cut  down  tliese  trees. 
We  might  a  passage  make." 

O  noble  Seigneur  Ranee ! 
To  you  our  thanks  be  paid 


MARTIGUE.  249 

For  the  welcome  that  in  France 
You  to  the  Bourbon  made. 

With  cannon-shot  amain, 

Likewise  artillery. 

You  drove  him  back  again. 

As  far  as  Italy. 

Old  Trench  Song.     Tr.  Anon. 


Martigue, 

THE  SUITORS. 

WHEN  violets  are  blue  in  the  blue  shadows 
Of  the  o'erhanging  trees, 
The  youth  who  stray  in  pairs  about  the  meadows 
Are  glad  to  gather  these. 

When  peace  descends  upon  the  troubled  Ocean, 

And  he  his  wrath  forgets, 
Flock  from  Martigue  the  boats  with  wing-like  motion, 

The  fishes  fill  the  nets. 

And  when  the  girls  of  Crau  bloom  int(j  beauty 

(And  fairer  earth  knows  not). 
Aye  are  there  suitors  ready  for  their  duty 

In  castle  and  iu  cot. 

Frederic  Mistral.     Tr.  Harriet  W.  Preston. 


250  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Mesnil-sous-Jumieges, 

AGNES  SOREL. 

THIS  then  is  Mesnil,  named  from  her  whose  charms 
Above  all  other  themes  the  poet  warms  : 
Agnes,  the  star  of  Charles,  whose  early  fate 
Left  his  fond  heart  forlorn  and  desolate. 

Here  perfumed  airs  amidst  each  secret  shade 
Tell  of  their  ancient  loves  that  cannot  fade ; 
These  ruined  walls  seem  mourning  in  decay 
That  worth  and  beauty  should  be  swept  away  ; 
The  wind  moans  round  them  sad  and  heavily,  — 
An  echo  of  fair  Agnes'  latest  sigh. 

She  bright  as  Grecian  Helen,  famed  in  song. 

Whose  eyes  held  Charles  in  love's  devotion  long,  — 

Another  Paris,  who  would  fain  have  been 

A  shepherd  youth  with  her  his  rural  queen  : 

To  live  for  her  was  all  he  cared  to  do. 

She  his  ambition  and  his  glory  too. 

Erom  wars  and  high  contentions  he  removed, 

Content  with  her  to  love  and  be  beloved. 

But  envious  rumor  whispered  of  disgrace. 

Of  tarnislied  name  and  of  degenerate  race ; 

Of  one  who  at  his  lady's  feet  bowed  down, 

Forgot  his  country,  honor,  and  renown. 

Without  a  blush  such  words  could  Agnes  hear, 
And  bear  reproaches  on  a  name  so  dear? 


MESNIL-SOUS-JUMIEGES.  251 

With  tender  eloquence  she  woke  the  tlieme. 
And  bade  her  lover  rouse  hiiu  tVoin  his  dream : 

"Since,  lowly  as  I  am,  on  me  thy  light 

Has  shone  so  fondly  and  so  purely  bright. 

And  I  have  dared  to  answer  to  thy  flame, 

111  it  becomes  me  to  eclipse  thy  fame. 

Shall  it  be  said,  effeminate  and  base. 

Bowed  to  my  will,  enamored  of  my  face. 

Thou  canst  forget  thy  honor  for  my  sake? 

My  king,  my  friend,  my  love,  arise! — awake  I 

Arm  !   arm  !    and  lead  thy  subjects  forth  once  more, 

And  drive  the  haughty  English  from  thy  shore. 

Let  my  ambition  and  thine  own  agree, 

To  see  a  hero  and  my  love  in  thee. 

O,  let  my  words  dispel  this  idle  trance, 

Let  Agnes  be  esteemed  in  grateful  France. 

I  would  not  honor  made  thee  love  forego, 

But  let  love  teach  thee  honor's  laws  to  know  ! " 


She  spoke  :    her  generous  zeal  the  monarch  moved, 
And  virtue  wakened  at  the  voice  he  loved : 
A  brighter  flame  in  his  roused  bosom  burst 
From  the  same  torch  which  had  eflFaced  it  first; 
And  by  the  love  for  which  reproach  he  bore. 
He  vowed  the  English  pride  should  be  no  more. 
Then  Victory,  that,  untrue  to  friend  or  foe, 
With  restless  flight  had  hovered  to  and  fro. 
Declared  for  us  at  last,  and  rescued  France 
Beheld  her  banners  to  the  skies  advance  ! 


'52  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

'T  was  then,  with  conquered  Normandy  his  prize. 
The  lover  from  long  battles  turned  his  eyes. 
And  midst  the  shades  of  lone  Jumiege  sought 
The  lovely  object  of  his  teuderest  thought. 

Then  Agues  came,  —  she  heard  of  treachery. 

And  flew  to  warn  him  of  the  danger  nigh. 

But  Fate  had  led  her  to  this  holy  fane. 

And  doomed  her  ne'er  to  quit  those  walls  again. 

Alas  !   fond  lover,  after  all  thy  care. 

Thy  toil,  thy  valor,  was  all  hope  but  air? 

All  thy  heart  promised  void  ?     The  trial  past. 

Is  death  and  sorrow  thy  reward  at  last  I 

O  Death !   has  beauty,  then,  no  i)ower  to  move  ? 

Deaf  art  thou  thus  to  constancy  and  love  ? 

But  great  although  thy  power,  and  fell  thy  sway. 

And  in  her  youthful  prime  she  fell  thy  prey. 

The  wrong  is  less  than  if,  as  Fortune  willed. 

The  days  by  Nature  granted  had  been  filled ; 

And  those  soft  features  and  those  eyes  so  bright 

In  dim  and  faded  age  had  lost  their  light ; 

And  that  renown  of  Beauty's  Queen  no  more 

The  world  would  give  her,  since  its  power  was  o'er. 

No !   to  the  last  so  lovely  and  so  dear, 

Her  peerless  star  shone  ever  bright  and  clear ! 

Fair  Agnes  lives  in  never-ending  fame 

As  long  as  Beauty  shall  be  Beauty's  name ! 

Jean  Anto'iue  de  Ba'if.     Tr.  Louisa  Stuart  Costello. 


MONCONTOUR.  253 


Moncontour. 


A  SONG  OF  THE  HUGUEXOTS. 

MoNCONTOCK  is  a  village  of  France,  about  twenty-five  miles  northwest 
of  Poictiers.  In  1569,  Coligtiy,  the  leader  of  the  Huguenots,  was  defeated 
here  by  Henry  the  Third,  when  Duke  of  Anjou. 

OWEEP  for  Moucontour!     0,  weep  for  the  hour 
9   When  the  children  of  darkness  and  evil  had  power; 
When  the  horsemen  of  Valois  triumphantly  trod 
On  the  bosoms  that  bled  for  their  rights  and  their  God! 

O,  weep  for  Moncontour  !     O,  weep  for  the  slain 
Who  for  faith  and  for  freedom  lay  slaughtered  in  vain! 
O,  weep  for  the  living,  who  linger  to  bear 
The  renegade's  shame  or  the  exile's  despair! 

One  look,  one  last  look,  to  the  cots  and  the  towers, 
To  the  rows  of  our  vines,  and  the  beds  of  our  flowers. 
To  the  church  where  the  bones  of  our  fathers  decayed, 
Where  we  fondly  had  deemed  that  our  own  should  be 
laid. 

Alas  !   we  must  leave  thee,  dear  desolate  home, 
To  the  spearmen  of  Uri,  the  shavelings  of  Rome, 
To  the  serpent  of  Florence,  the  vulture  of  Spain, 
To  the  pride  of  Anjou,  and  the  guile  of  Lorraine. 

Farewell  to  thy  fountain,  farewell  to  thy  shades. 

To  the  song  of  thy  youths  and  the  dance  of  thy  maids, 


254  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

To  the  breath  of  thy  garden,  the  hum  of  thy  bees. 
And  the  long  waving  line  of  the  blue  Pyrenees. 

Farewell,  and  forever !     The  priest  and  the  slave 
May  rule  in  the  halls  of  the  free  and  the  brave ;  — 
Our  hearths  we  abandon;    our  lands  we  resign; 
But,  Father,  we  kneel  to  no  altar  but  thine. 

Thomas  Bahington  Macaulay. 


Montauhan, 


VERSES  WRITTEN  AT  MONTAUBAN,  1750. 

TARN,  how  delightful  wind  thy  willowed  waves, 
But  ah  !  they  fructify  a  land  of  slaves. 
In  vain  thy  barefoot,  sunburnt  peasants  hide 
With  luscious  grapes  yon  hill's  romantic  side; 
No  cups  nectareous  shall  their  toils  repay. 
The  priests',  the  soldiers',  and  the  farmers'  prey. 
Vain  glows  this  sun  in  cloudless  glory  dressed. 
That  strikes  fresh  vigor  through  the  pining  breast; 
Give  me,  beneath  a  colder  changeful  sky. 
My  soul's  best,  only  pleasure,  Liberty ! 
What  millions  perished  near  thy  moanful  flood 
When  the  red  papal  tyrant  cried  out,  "  Blood  !  " 
Less  fierce  the  Saracen,  and  quivered  Moor, 
That  dashed  thy  infants  'gainst  the  stones  of  yore. 
Be  warned,  ye  nations  round ;  and  trembling  see 


MONTMARTRE.  255 

Dire  superstition  quench  humanity  ! 
By  all  the  chiefs  in  Freedom's  battles  lost; 
By  wise  and  virtuous  Alfred's  awful  ghost ; 
By  old  Galgacus'  scythed,  iron  car. 
That,  swiftly  whirling  through  the  walks  of  war, 
Dashed  Roman  blood,  and  crushed  the  foreign  throngs ; 
By  holy  Druids'  courage-breathing  songs; 
By  fierce  Bonduca's  shield,  and  foaming  steeds  ; 
By  the  bold  peers  that  met  on  Thames's  meads ; 
By  the  fifth  Henry's  helm,  and  lightniug  spear, 
O  Liberty,  my  warm  petition  hear; 
Be  Albion  still  thy  joy  !  with  her  remain. 
Long  as  the  surge  shall  lash  her  oak-crowned  plain! 

Thomas  Warfon. 


Montmartre. 

HEINE'S  GRAVE. 

«  TT  ENRI  HEINE  "  —  't  is  here ! 

AA  The  black  tombstone,  the  name 
Carved  there,  —  no  more  !    and  the  smooth, 
Swarded  alleys,  the  limes 
Touched  with  yellow  by  hot 
Summer,  but  under  them  still 
In  September's  bright  afternoon 
Shadow  and  verdure  and  cool ! 
Trim  Montmartre  !    the  faint 
Murmur  of  Paris  outside ; 


256  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

Crisp  everlasting-flowers, 
Yellow  and  black,  on  the  graves. 

Half  blind,  palsied,  in  pain. 
Hither  to  come,  from  the  streets' 
Uproar,  surely  not  loath 
Wast  thou,  Hehie !  —  to  lie 
Quiet !   to  ask  for  closed 
Shutters,  and  darkened  room. 
And  cool  drinks,  and  an  eased 
Posture,  and  opium,  no  more ! 
Hither  to  come,  and  to  sleep 
Under  the  wings  of  Renown. 

Ah !   not  little,  when  pain 
Is  most  quelling,  and  man 
Easily  quelled,  and  the  fine 
Temper  of  genius  alive 
Quickest  to  ill,  is  the  praise 
Not  to  have  yielded  to  pain  ! 
No  small  boast,  for  a  w^ak 
Sou  of  mankind,  to  the  earth 
Pinned  by  the  thunder,  to  rear 
His  bolt-scalhed  front  to  the  stars; 
And,  undaunted,  retort 
'Gainst  thick-crashing,  insane, 
Tyrannous  tempests  of  bale. 
Arrowy  lightnings  of  soul ! 

Hark  !    through  the  alley  resounds 
Mocking  laughter  !     A  film 


MOXTMARTRE.  £5? 

Creeps  o'er  the  sunshine;   a  breeze 
Ruffles  the  warm  afternoon, 
Saddens  my  soul  with  its  chill. 
Gibing  of  spirits  in  scorn 
Shakes  every  leaf  of  the  grove. 
Mars  the  benignant  repose 
,  Of  this  amiable  home  of  the  dead. 

Bitter  spirits !   ye  claim 

Heine  ?  —  Alas,  lie  is  yours  ! 

Only  a  moment  I  longed 

Here  in  the  quiet  to  snatch 

From  such  mates  the  outworn 

Poet,  and  steep  him  in  calm. 

Only  a  moment  !    I  knew 

Whose  he  was  who  is  here 

Buried,  I  knew  he  was  yours  ! 

Ah,  I  knew  that  I  saw 

Here  no  sepulchre  built 

In  the  laurelled  rock,  o'er  the  blue 

Naples  bay,,  for  a  sweet 

Tender  Virgil !    no  tomb 

On  Ravenna  sands,  in  the  shade 

Of  Ravenna  pines,  for  a  high 

Austere  Dante  !    no  grave 

By  the  Avon  side,  in  the  bright 

Stratford  meadows,  for  thee, 

Shakespeare  !    loveliest  of  souls, 

Peerless  in  radiance,  in  joy. 

***** 

Matthew  Arnold. 


258  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Montpellier. 


NARCISSA. 

Had  you  been  with  me  in  a  solitary  walk  the  other  day,  you  would 
have  shed  a  tear  over  the  remains  of  his  dear  Narcissa.  I  was  walkin^g 
in  a  place  called  the  King's  Garden  ;  and  thei'e  I  saw  the  spot  where  she 

was  interred.     Mr.  J ,  Mrs.  H ,  and  myself,  had  some  conversation 

with  the  gardener  respecting  it,  who  told  us  that  about  forty-five  years 
ago  Dr.  Young  was  here  with  his  daughter  for  her  health  ;  that  he  used 
constantly  to  be  walking  backward  and  forward  in  this  garden ;  and  that 
lie  bribed  the  under  gardener,  belonging  to  his  father,  to  let  him  bury  liis 
daughter,  which  he  did  ;  pointed  out  the  most  solitary  place,  and  dug  the 
grave.  The  man,  through  a  pi-ivate  door,  admitted  the  Doctor  at  midnight, 
bringing  his  beloved  daughter,  wrapped  up  in  a  slieet,  upon  his  shoulder ; 
he  laid  her  in  the  hole,  sat  down,  and  (as  the  man  expressed  it)  "  rained 
tears  !  "  —  W.  Taylor's  Letter  to  Mrs.  Mouurher. 

SNATCHED  ere  thy  prime  !  and  in  thy  bridal  hour ! 
And  when  kind  fortune,  with  thy  lover,  smiled! 
And  when  higli-flavored  thy  fresh-opening  joys  ! 
And  when  blind  man  pronounced  thy  bliss  complete ! 
And  on  a  foreign  shore  where  strangers  wept! 
Strangers  to  tliee,  and,  more  surprising  still, 
Strangers  to  kindness,  wept.     Their  eyes  let  fall 
Inhuman  tears  ;  strange  tears  !  that  trickled  down 
From  marble  hearts!  obdurate  tenderness! 
A  tenderness  that  called  them  more  severe, 
In  spite  of  Nature's  soft  persuasion  steeled : 
While  Nature  melted,  Superstition  raved  ; 
That  mourned  the  dead,  and  this  denied  a  grave. 
Their  sighs  incensed ;  sighs  foreign  to  the  will  ! 
Their  will  the  tiger-sucked  outraged  the  storm  : 


MONTPELLIER.  259 

For,  O,  the  cursed  ungodliness  of  Zeal ! 

While  sinful  flesh  relented,  spirit  nursed 

In  blind  Infallibility's  embrace, 

The  sahited  spirit  petrified  the  breast ; 

Denied  the  charily  of  dust  to  spread 

O'er  dust !  a  charity  their  dogs  enjoy. 

What  could  I  do  ?  what  succor  ?  what  resource  ? 

With  pious  sacrilege  a  grave  I  stole ; 

With  impious  piety  that  grave  I  wronged ; 

Short  in  my  duty,  coward  in  my  grief ! 

More  like  lier  murderer  than  friend,  I  crept 

With  soft-suspended  step,  and,  muffled  deep 

In  midnight  darkness,  whispered  my  last  sigh, 

I  whispered  what  should  echo  tlirough  their  realms, 

Nor  writ  her  name,  whose  tomb  should  pierce  the  skies ! 

Presumptuous  fear !  how  durst  I  dread  her  foes, 

While  Nature's  loudest  dictates  I  obeyed  ? 

Pardon  necessity,  blest  shade  !  of  grief 

And  indignation  rival  bursts  I  poured; 

Half-execration  mingled  with  my  prayer; 

Kindled  at  man,  while  I  his  God  adored ; 

Sore  grudged  the  savage  land  her  sacred  dust ; 

Stamped  the  curst  soil;  and  with  humanity 

(Denied  Narcissa)  washed  them  all  a  grave, 

Edward  Young. 


260  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 


Mont   Valerien. 

THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS. 

IN  Mount  Valerieii's  chestnut  wood 
The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits  stood ; 
And  thither,  at  the  close  of  day, 
Came  two  old  pilgrims,  worn  and  gray. 

One,  whose  impetuous  youth  defied 
The  storms  of  Baikal's  wintry  side, 
And  mused  and  dreamed  where  tropic  day 
Flamed  o'er  his  lost  Virginia's  bay. 

His  simple  tale  of  love  and  woe 
All  hearts  had  melted,  high  or  low  ;  — 
A  blissful  pain,  a  sweet  distress. 
Immortal  in  its  tenderness. 

Yet,  while  above  his  charmed  page 
Beat  quick  the  young  heart  of  his  age, 
He  walked  amidst  the  crowd  unknown, 
A  sorrowing  old  man,  strange  and  lone. 

***** 
Who  sought  with  him,  from  summer  air. 
And  fi(3ld  and  wood,  a  balm  for  care ; 
And  bathed  in  light  of  sunset  skies 
His  tortured  nerves  and  weary  eyes  ? 

His  fame  on  all  the  winds  had  flown; 
His  words  had  shaken  crypt  and  throne  ; 


MONT    VALERIEN.  261 

Like  fire,  on  camp  and  court  and  cell 
Tliey  dropped,  and  kindled  as  tliey  fell. 

***** 
Forth  from  the  city's  noise  and  throng, 
Its  pomp  and  shame,  its  sin  and  wrong, 
The  twain  that  summer  day  had  strayed 
To  Mount  Valerien's  cliestnut  shade. 

To  them  the  green  fields  and  the  wood 
Lent  something  of  their  quietude, 
And  golden-tinted  sunset  seemed 
Prophetical  of  all  they  dreamed. 

The  hermits  from  their  simple  cares 
The  bell  was  calling  home  to  prayers. 
And,  listening  to  its  sound,  the  twain 
Seemed  lapped  in  childhood's  trust  again. 

Wide  open  stood  the  cliapel  door; 

A  sweet  old  music,  swelling  o'er 

Low  prayerful  murmurs,  issued  thence,  — 

Tiie  Litanies  of  Providence  ! 

Then  Rousseau  spake  :  "  Where  two  or  three 
In  His  name  meet.  He  there  will  be  !  " 
And  then,  in  silence,  on  their  knees 
They  sank  beneath  the  cliestnut-trees. 

As  to  the  blind  returning  light, 
As  daybreak  to  the  Arctic  night. 
Old  faith  revived ;  the  doubts  of  years 
Dissolved  in  reverential  tears. 


262  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

That  gush  of  feeling  overpast, 
"  Ah  me  !  "  Bernardin  sighed  at  last, 
"  I  would  thy  bitterest  foes  could  see 
Thy  heart  as  it  is  seen  of  me ! 

"  No  church  of  God  hast  thou  denied  ; 
Thou  hast  but  spurned  in  scorn  aside 
A  base  and  hollow  counterfeit, 
Profaning  the  pure  name  of  it  ! 

"  With  dry  dead  moss  and  marish  weeds 
His  fire  the  western  herdsman  feeds. 
And  greener  from  the  ashen  plain 
The  sweet  spring  grasses  rise  again." 

So  speaking,  through  the  twilight  gray 
The  two  old  pilgrims  went  their  way. 
What  seeds  of  life  that  day  were  sown 
The  heavenly  watchers  knew  alone. 

Time  ]iassed,  and  Autumn  came  to  fold 
Green  Summer  in  her  brown  and  gold  ; 
Time  passed,  and  Winter's  tears  of  snow 
Dropped  on  the  grave-mound  of  Rousseau. 

"  The  tree  remaineth  where  it  fell, 

The  pained  on  earth  is  pained  in  hell !  " 

So  priestcraft  from  its  altars  cursed 

The  mournful  doubts  its  falsehood  nui-sed. 

Ah  !  well  of  old  the  Psalmist  prayed, 
"  Thy  hand,  not  man's,  on  me  be  laid  !  " 


MOUBIHAN.  263 

Earth  frowus  below,  Heaven  weeps  above, 
And  man  is  liate,  but  God  is  love  ! 

No  hermits  now  the  wanderer  sees, 
Nor  chapel  with  its  chestnut-trees ; 
A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that  's  told, 
The  wave  of  change  o'er  all  has  rolled. 

Yet  lives  the  lesson  of  that  day  ; 
And  from  its  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Comes  up  a  low,  sad  whisper,  "  Make 
The  truth  thine  own,  for  truth's  own  sake." 
***** 

John  Greealeaf  Whittier. 


Morbihan, 


ST.  GILDAS   DE  RHUIS. 

YOU  must  know,  then,  it  is  in  tlie  diocese 
Called  the  Diocese  of  Vannes, 
In  the  province  of  Brittany. 
From  the  gray  rocks  of  Morbihan 
It  overlook^  the  angry  sea ; 
The  very  sea-shore   where. 
In  his  great  desj)air, 
Abbot  Abelard  walked  to  and  fro, 
Filling  the  night  with  woe, 
And  wailing  aloud  to  the  merciless  seas 


264  POEMS    OF    PLACES. 

The  name  of  his  sweet  Heloise ! 

Whilst  overhead 

The  convent  windows  gleamed  as  red 

As  the  fiery  eyes  of  the  monks  within, 

Who  with  jovial  din 

Gave  themselves  up  to  all  kinds  of  sin  ! 

Ha !  that  is  a  convent !  that  is  an  abbey  ! 

Over  the  doors, 

None  of  your  death-heads  carved  in  wood, 

None  of  your  saints  looking  pious  and  good, 

None  of  your  patriarchs  old  and  shabby! 

But  the  heads  and  tusks   of  boars. 

And  the  cells 

Hung  all  round  with  the  fells 

Of  the  fallow-deer. 

ilnd  then  what  cheer! 

Wliat  jolly,  fat  friars. 

Sitting  round  the  great,  roaring  fires. 

Roaring  louder  than  they. 

With  their  strong  wines. 

And  their  concubines. 

And  never  a  bell. 

With  its  swagger  and  swell. 

Calling  you  up  with  a  start  of  affright 

In  the  dead  of  night. 

To  send  you  grumbling  down  da^rk  stairs, 

To  mumble  your  prayers. 

But  the  cheery  crow 

Of  cocks  in  the  yard  below, 

After  daybreak,  an  hour  or  so. 

And  the  barking  of  deep-mouthed  hounds, 


MORBIHAN.  265 

These  are  the  sounds 

That,  instead  of  bells,  salute  the  ear. 

Aud  then  all  day 

Up  and  away 

Through  the  forest,  hunting  the  deer! 

Henry  Wadsworth  Longfellow. 


END    OF   VOL.    I. 


